


just a little bit of burglary

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And a Sap, And all that jazz, BDSM, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bondage, Bottom Thorin, Dom Bilbo Baggins, Dom/sub, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safewords, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, Spanking, Sub Thorin Oakenshield, Thorin is a Softie, Top Bilbo, and a dork, another a+ title by me, bilbo just has a lot of ust, fucking on a table, maybe a leetle angst, spoiler alert the table breaks, wow look at all those smutty tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has issues with frustration.</p><p>A haughty dwarf king turns up on his doorstep to scout his company’s burglar, or something equally ridiculous.</p><p>Naturally, Thorin is an ass and Bilbo doesn’t take it well.</p><p>It ends with both of them mutually, for wont of a better term, discovering a most pleasurable way of blowing off steam. Unfortunately they then have to suffer each other's company over the next year and a highly dangerous journey to Erebor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: The Shire

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first smut fic ever to see the light of day. In case you're not already running for the hills, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> also this somehoW became multi-chapter (also my first). blame yourselves. BLAME YOURSELVES.

Bilbo glared at the dwarf.

The dwarf glared back.

‘Excuse me,’ Bilbo said, polite words forced from between gritted teeth, ‘what, exactly, is your business here?’

‘As I have mentioned _numerous_ times,’ the dwarf snapped, his dark scowl never wavering even as he tore at a hunk of bread like a ravenous wolf, ice-blue eyes unmoving from where they were apparently trying to set fire to Bilbo’s own, ‘I have come to decide the worthiness of our burglar.’

Bilbo had to grind his jaw for an entire minute before he could respond to that with terms suitable for polite (or in this case, anything but) company. It was a habit grown entirely too common those days, so much so that even gently setting his teeth sent a stab of pain lancing through Bilbo’s skull.

This was due to one thing.

Frustration _._

Earth-shaking, all-consuming, unsurmountable, burning _frustration_. Frustration of so many kinds, snarled into such a tight, thorny knot of epic proportions that Bilbo could only helplessly watch it grow with each passing day, dreading the moment where it exploded in a great fiery mess and his Took side was unleashed until his vision went red.

It seemed to have chosen this moment.

Bilbo let out a hissing sigh and intensified his glare, wondering if he’d be able to drag the dwarf from his seat at _his kitchen_ _table_ by sheer mental willpower and unceremoniously throw him out his lovely round green door. He spared a quick look to the dwarf’s broad shoulders and dismissed the idea with a near-silent huff.

‘Indeed, Master Dwarf, and exactly like the first time you told me so, _I have no idea what you mean by that!’_ Bilbo snapped, his fists clenching around his butterknife, back ramrod-straight against his dear little dining chair. The dwarf spared him a disgusted look before returning to his food, having apparently given up trying to set fire to Bilbo by the sheer power of his stare.

‘I must say, you do not exactly fit the description which I was lead to believe,’ he said archly in that lovely rich voice which was entirely wasted on such a pigheaded git. Bilbo recalled how he’d introduced himself — _Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Durin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, rightful King Under The Mountain._ It all translated to ‘imbecile’ in his head anyway.

‘What description?’ Bilbo snapped, before latching onto another part of his statement and saying, ‘By _who_?’

‘The description of a burglar, by Gandalf the Grey,’ the dwarf replied disdainfully, meeting his eyes once more from under thick brows. ‘You more resemble a grocer.’

Bilbo, very distantly, noticed himself shoot to his feet.

He was more concerned with the explosion currently occurring behind his ribs.

Then the battle-mist descended, and nothing really mattered aside from showing this most uncouth dwarf the meaning of _propriety._

‘That is _it_!’ he shouted, storming round the table to jab a finger into the dwarf’s chest, who had also leapt from his chair. Some part of Bilbo spared a moment to feel vicious satisfaction at the stunned shock widening those icy eyes. ‘You can't just — just _storm_ in here like you own the place, _ignore_ me as if I’m a doormat, sit down to eat my dinner — without a _word_ of greeting or simple hello, mind you! — proclaim yourself as some sort of bloody _royalty_ , expect me to be a _burglar_ of all the ridiculous things, then CALL ME A _GROCER_! It is _NOT_ allowed, no sir, not today!’ Bilbo all but shrieked, his jabs becoming more and more violent until he was driving the dwarf into the hall, eyes narrowed vindictively, pointed ears reddened with rage. ‘Do you know what I’ve gone through these past years? Hmm? Bloody nosy relatives at every turn, being ogled by people at the markets, named _Mad Baggins_ by fauntlings, I’ve gone _untouched_ for _two decades,_ and now! Now! _You_ turn up, with your furs and your sword and your, your disrespect! No, no, I don’t care if you’re starving, I don’t care if you’re royalty, I don’t care if you’re on a noble bloody quest to regain your homeland, I don’t care how many times you got lost — because honestly, who gets lost? In the _Shire?!_ _Nobody_ , that’s who!’ He punctuated every one of his next words with the hardest pokes yet until the dwarf was entirely driven into a wall. ‘ _Nobody — gets — lost — in — the — bloody — Shire, you complete imbecile!’_

For a few seconds, the only sound was that of Bilbo’s incensed pants, ragged and awfully loud in the aftermath of his ringing shouts, the dwarf glaring coolly down at him, Bilbo with his face screwed up in anger and his finger still digging into the odd interlocking steel hexagons of the dwarf’s tunic. They were pressed so close together that the dwarf’s silver-streaked hair brushed his collarbone, and Bilbo could feel the solid outline of his chest and the press of his black velvet vest and the cool hardness of his belt and —

Hang on a moment.

Is that what he thinks it is?

No. No, it _can’t_ be. It just isn’t possible.

Bilbo stared up at the dwarf, suddenly owlish and lost for words, and though his face remained impassively icy Bilbo’s gaze jumped to the large ear poking through his dark curtain of hair, which had rather unmistakably reddened to a deep shade of crimson.

And he would have thought it not possible — oh, but it _was._

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

He watched as the redness began to creep across those sculpted cheekbones. It made the dwarf's blue eyes stand out all the more, and something deep inside Bilbo stirred slowly, waking; he at last managed to regain his tongue, though his voice was oddly rough when it came.

‘What—’

‘It is none of your business,’ the dwarf — Thorin — cut him off curtly, but he certainly wasn’t fooling Bilbo because the flush had reached the bridge of his nose and there was a distinct undertone of panic to that deep voice.

‘Oh, I do believe it _is_ ,’ Bilbo replied heatedly. He blinked as his voice nearly cracked, but resolutely turned his eyes back to Thorin’s, who was now averting them, glaring holes into the polished floors. Still his _interest_ dug into Bilbo’s soft side, and quite without his permission Bilbo found himself beginning to respond in kind. ‘It is most certainly my business.’ His voice dropped lower, almost husky, and Thorin’s bright blue eyes snapped back to him in surprise — and interest, for all he tried to hide it.

Bilbo flattened out his jabbing hand with the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, eye-contact unwavering as he began an agonisingly slow trail _downwards._ ‘A grocer, hmm?’ he hummed, tilting his head and raising his brow as he heard Thorin’s breaths quicken through his slightly-open mouth. ‘I seem to be quite _interesting_ to you. For a grocer.’

‘Mahal above, Halfling,’ Thorin breathed, staring incredulously wide-eyed down at Bilbo as if he’d never seen him before. He seemed to want to say something else, but when Bilbo’s fingers trailed past his belt the words seemed to become stuck in his throat and he choked a little. ‘Y—you are very forward for one of the gentle folk.’

Bilbo’s other eyebrow joined its kin as that _thing_ behind his ribs stirred again, woke at Thorin’s somewhat strangled tone and sent a searing heat pooling through his chest. ‘It’s _Bilbo_ , I’m not half of anything, thank you very much — and did you miss the part about _untouched for two decades?_ Frankly I’m even surprised at myself, but I’m feeling just insane enough not to stop, unless you are opposed.’

‘…I am not,’ Thorin muttered, almost subdued, his brilliant blue eyes shadowed by his lashes as he glanced once more to the floor. The heat inside Bilbo turned molten, because dear sweet Lady if that wasn’t ridiculously attractive, fire spreading through his veins with every beat of his heart.

‘Well, good,’ Bilbo said with a quick smile. Thorin blinked owlishly at him for a moment before suddenly he was kissing him and his hair was curtaining the both of them, one calloused hand cupping his jaw, the edge of his vambrace just brushing Bilbo’s skin, his neat beard an oddly arousing scrape beside the chapped touch of his lips. He smelled like leather and pine and the earth after rain.

Thorin drew back quickly, flushed and contrite, and Bilbo could only think _well, there goes the last of my respectability._

The hobbit then wasted no time in grabbing the two braids framing Thorin's face like reins and sharply tugging him back down for a much less chaste kiss, licking his way into the heat of his mouth before exploring it enthusiastically, fired by Thorin’s soft pants and muted groans. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his ears and lower, his entire body set alight as his nimble fingers retraced their path, sliding down Thorin’s tunic until they reached their prize, separated only by a thin covering of buckskin…and a ridiculously large belt, and a leather tunic, not to mention the pants themselves, which in Bilbo’s eyes had no visible method of release.

He huffed into Thorin’s mouth and pulled away, nearly regretting it at Thorin’s soft almost-whine, planting his fists on his hips with a glare even though he was sure that his face was flushed and entirely dishevelled.

‘Clothes,’ he said, tone brokering no argument. ‘Off. Now.’

Not that Thorin seemed inclined to argue, if the rapid darkening of his eyes was any indication.

In a time which, if you were to ask Bilbo, was much too long (though any other observer would likely be very impressed — if not stunned — by the speed of Thorin’s undressing) the dwarf was left only in his soft trousers. When he had went to remove them Bilbo had stayed his wrist with a single look, and really Thorin needed no other words.

The look was then transferred to Thorin’s torso, shoulders, arms, chest (oh sweet Yavanna the _chest_ ) because though Thorin certainly appeared temptingly ravishing in his fine raiment, almost naked he looked  _delicious_ , and really Bilbo wondered who of the Valar thought it was a good idea for Thorin to even exist because such a mortal certainly shouldn’t have been allowed.

Thorin stood still beneath his examination, quietly obedient for all of his impatience, and after he was somewhat satisfied Bilbo stepped in with a hum of approval. He watched his hands slide down Thorin’s shoulder, revelling in the smooth warmth of the dwarf's skin and his slight shiver he gave. ‘Very nice,’ Bilbo murmured absently, and Thorin let out a stuttered gasp which ghosted past his pointed ear. ‘Such patience is impressive,’ he continued, his touch now at Thorin’s chest, eyes entranced by the silver glinting tantalisingly through a dark thatch of hair. ‘Don't you think?’

‘Yes, Bilbo,’ Thorin said hoarsely, and Bilbo was once more forced to question the Valar's intentions.

Bilbo traced his fingers down Thorin's chest until they caught on his piercing, a delicate band of silver looping through his right nipple. He tugged on it lightly, teasing, and was rewarded by a hissing breath from Thorin and a _thunk_ as the dwarf’s head hit the wall. He ducked down and set the flat of his tongue to it and Thorin cursed lowly in a tongue which reminded Bilbo of dark stone and gravel, and when he began to suck the curses becomes a hoarse and broken string.

It was addictive, pulling those noises from the regal dwarf, and Bilbo had to pull away before he became lost. He was breathless and blinking and had to swallow a fair few times and card his hand through his curls before he regained any semblance of composure, and it certainly wasn’t helped by Thorin’s blazing eyes fixed hungrily on him the entire time.

‘Right,’ Bilbo said, nodding, before hooking his thumbs beneath his suspenders. He jerked his chin to the blessedly empty dining table. ‘Over there. Go.’ Thorin released a shuddering breath laced with frustration but complied, striding away with stiff shoulders and his hands forming white-knuckled fists. Bilbo would admit that he became a little lost for a moment, watching the compelling coil and stretch of Thorin’s back as he went.

Bilbo rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to think past the raging arousal throbbing through his body and the constant and distinctly un-hobbitish litany of _bend him over and fuck him into the table_ which had been there since before Thorin stared down his nose and said he’d lost his way twice.

He went very still for a moment, cocked his head, then shrugged.

While simple, it wasn’t the worst plan; a sentiment with which the slow burning in his veins seemed to agree.

The fire in Thorin’s pale eyes was undimmed when Bilbo finally followed his steps into the dining room, blazing with blue flames as the rest of his face settled into an unimpressed look. The hobbit wasn’t fooled. It would seem that the dwarf’s eyes were the most expressive part of him, and looking into them it was obvious to Bilbo that he’d go along with almost anything which he came up with. The thought was thrilling and it gave him an unparalleled confidence when he came to stand before Thorin, tilting his head slightly and gifting him a promising smile. ‘You really are being very good,’ he said, the conversational tone of his voice belying the hot throb of arousal fighting to scatter his thoughts. ‘I’m impressed.’

Thorin’s eyes closed at his words, eyelashes a sooty smudge against his cheek as he dipped his head. It was an interesting reaction to simple praise, interesting enough for Bilbo to press it further. He stepped forwards and traced along Thorin's jaw before taking a light hold of his chin, tilting his face this way and that to watch the play of light across it. 

‘Beautiful,’ Bilbo whispered. Thorin’s eyes snapped open. Stunned blue arrowed into his own unassuming brown, and he merely gave a crooked smile before setting his thumbs beneath Thorin’s jaw and tilting his head back, nipping at the base of his throat as he added ‘ _stunning_ ,’ licking his way up the tendon and murmuring _‘perfect,’_ kissing the spot just beneath his ear before putting his mouth to it and whispering _‘mine.’_

Thorin’s reaction was almost breathtaking as he turned all but boneless, melting into Bilbo’s hold, who manoeuvred him to sit on the table. He pulled Thorin's slim hips forwards and stood between the bracket of strong thighs. Any trace of the arrogant king had all but disappeared, the dwarf's expression soft and sleepy as he watched Bilbo patiently through half-lidded eyes.

‘Hmm,’ Bilbo hummed, his lips turning upwards. ‘Very nice.’ He stroked a thumb along Thorin’s cheek, his beard surprisingly soft beneath the sensitive pad. ‘Very nice indeed.’

Then he pulled the drawstring of Thorin’s trousers free with one easy tug, shucking the garment down and off absently as his eyes stayed on Thorin’s cock. It was thick and hard and tempting against the dwarf’s sculpted abdomen, simply begging for Bilbo’s touch.

Bilbo did so and more, falling to his knees heedless of the hard flagstone and licking a long stripe up the base.

He allowed himself a brief grin at Thorin’s hoarse cry before ducking down and teasing at the head, rolling back the velvety foreskin and lapping up the bead of precome with a filthy flick of his tongue. Thorin was all but keening now, and the image of how his face might look brought Bilbo’s breath to rasping pants, his own neglected cock throbbing as he dug his fingers into the soft skin of Thorin’s thigh and sunk down as far as he could take. It was likely the only soft part about him, he thought dazedly, nothing like the hobbit lads and lasses which he’d lain with in the past. Of course he’d never done anything quite like this before; not to mention that his absolute lack of manners up to this point would’ve had him kicked from the bed of any self-respecting hobbit…but it seemed to work for Thorin, and it brought something to the moment which Bilbo had never experienced with past lovers.

Bilbo drew away from Thorin’s cock, letting it from his mouth with an involuntary noise of content. When he glanced up he met the sight of Thorin staring down at him as if he’d never seen anything quite like him before, as a man sees the sun after a long and bitter winter — for all that the expression was quickly shuttered away, it had been there, and it gave fuel to an idea which Bilbo had only ever _considered_.

‘Get off,’ he directed, giving a shaky breath despite himself as Thorin complied without a trace of reluctance, sliding down and waiting motionless for Bilbo’s next command. ‘Turn around.’ He lowered his eyes and stepped closer, running his hands down Thorin’s sides when he faced the low table. The dwarf braced his palms against the wood, his slight shiver transmitting through Bilbo’s fingers when they reached the swell of his ass.

‘Chest to the table,’ Bilbo whispered, transfixed by the sight. As expected Thorin stiffened slightly, the position being the most exposed yet, but soon enough he shuddered and complied, his dark hair pooling all around him as the muscles of his back shifted beneath pale skin, his backside bared invitingly. Bilbo nodded a few times, sharply, before tugging again at his suspenders then scrunching up his nose at himself. Honestly, you’d think him to be a green little lad, nervous before his first roll in the hay!

Resolve rekindled, Bilbo spread the tight cheeks of Thorin’s ass and studied the enticing sight, before nodding once more, determinedly, and kneeling to press his tongue to the tight furl of muscle. Thorin cried out in surprise, his muscles tensing beneath Bilbo’s hands, but before Bilbo could feel much more than nervous he began to curse emphatically in both that stone-language and Westron, entreating and encouraging and _Mahâl, yes, Bilbo, please._ Bilbo gave a full-body shudder at the begs falling from that beautiful voice and positively dove back in, mouthing and licking and teasing at the hole. He paused and drew back, bringing his fingers to his mouth before he thought better of it and leaned over Thorin, feeling the dwarf’s rippling shudders through their full-body contact. His almost painfully hard cock was brushing against Thorin’s ass but he managed to keep his mind, pressed his fingers to Thorin’s thin lips and murmured _‘Suck.’_

Bilbo swiftly learned that Thorin’s mouth was absolutely _wicked_. Eagerly he tongued and drew at Bilbo’s poor sensitive fingers, swirling around the tips and allowing a scrape of teeth up their underside. It brought certain _scenarios_ to mind in which that sinful talent could be put to other uses and he was forced to slide his fingers from the wet heat before he lost all finesse and started rutting mindlessly.

‘That was terribly — terribly good,’ Bilbo managed as he went to his knees, any resulting pain washed out by desire. ‘We’ll have to come back to that later.’

Then, very rudely, he cut off any reply Thorin might have given by easing one finger into tight, furnace-like heat, until the second knuckle disappeared and Thorin was groaning almost without pause, sweat sheening his skin as he rocked into the table, uselessly searching for friction against his cock. Bilbo was wordless, breathless, as he pressed in a second and watched it disappear easily, scissoring Thorin open and hearing him shout as he pressed his tongue in between. Until his jaw ached he licked and sucked and thrust his tongue into Thorin’s hole, withdrawing and adding a third finger to compensate, then plunging all three in until he felt a distinctive resistance and teased at it and driving Thorin truly wild, the dwarf crying out and rolling his hips back into Bilbo’s touch as he moaned himself. He just barely saw Thorin reach through his cock through a haze of arousal and stayed his hand. Thorin whined in protest but Bilbo remained adamant, crooking his fingers and _twisting_ until Thorin slammed his fist into the table with a splintering _crack_ and tightened impossibly around Bilbo’s fingers, hips jerking erratically as he came, untouched.

Bilbo stood shakily. His cock was throbbing with every beat of his heart as Thorin splayed across the table sweaty and panting, blue eyes dazed through an errant covering of hair. The urge to just sink into him and fuck him senseless was magnetic but Bilbo resisted, wary of both overstimulation and the lingering taste in his mouth.

‘Right,’ he said, unable to stop himself from smoothing a hand down the still-trembling muscles of Thorin’s back, dipping into the pool of sweat at the small of his spine and smoothing his thumb to his hip. ‘You stay right there. Don’t move, and don’t touch yourself, just — just stay nice and open for me.’

Thorin gave an inarticulate mumble in response and Bilbo couldn’t help the smallest glow of smugness. See him even _say_ grocer now _._

When Bilbo returned, his tongue thoroughly scoured with mint and lime paste and his arousal somewhat cooled, it was to a sight which froze him entirely. He stood stock-still in the doorway to the dining hall, held in place by the power of a brilliant blue gaze framed by curling locks of dark hair and half-hidden by the strong forearm which Thorin had buried his nose into. He was almost exactly where Bilbo had left him and the hobbit uncharacteristically overlooked the new dent in his lovely table, foregoing hobbit sensibilities for the very muscular, very impatient, very _naked_ dwarf sprawled over his dining table.

‘What were you doing?’ Thorin asked, and Bilbo already knew it would be insulting from the contrary tone of his voice. ‘Ordering cabbages?’

Bilbo merely rolled his eyes and poked the dwarf in the ribs. ‘If you _must_ know,’ he tutted, watching as the dwarf set his chin on his bicep, ‘I was washing out my mouth. So now I can freely do this.’ And he leaned down and kissed Thorin thoroughly, the other eagerly rising to the challenge as he craned his neck and met Bilbo’s questing tongue with his own. For a long time the dining hall was filled with soft gasps and moans and the slide of lips on lips and tongue on tongue, their kiss rekindling and building the embers in Bilbo’s stomach to a slow-burning flame until he felt his cock take interest once more. The scent of sex was still heavy on the air and Thorin tasted of sweat and ale and burning impatience; Bilbo slid a hand down Thorin’s back and teased at the rim of his hole, feeling it still loose and open after his thorough ministrations. The position was awkward, his neck and shoulder straining as he kissed Thorin and palmed his ass, but it was worth it to catch Thorin’s soft whine with his lips and tongue.

‘Lovely,’ he panted, slitting his eyes open to see Thorin watching him with hooded eyes, the slender strip of brightest blue visible glazing over at the praise. Bilbo gave a quick grin at the sight and retreated with a lingering brush over Thorin’s cheek. He went to stand so that his clothed cock just barely brushed the dwarf’s bare skin, running his hands down his sides with just the barest hint of nails to make him shudder, before leaning down to press his lips to Thorin’s spine.

‘I’m going to make you come again,’ he murmured into the heated skin. ‘Fuck you into the table until it breaks…or you do.’ He heard Thorin’s breath hitch at the promise. ‘As I’ve wanted to since the minute you walked in.’ He dug his nails into Thorin’s hip, giving the smallest roll of his hips as he bit softly at the ridge of his spine. ‘And look where we are now, hmm? I don’t think you’ll be saying anything so rude again soon, will you, Thorin?’

Bilbo gave an infinitely more tangible grind and Thorin’s answer came out hoarse and stuttered, muffled once more into the skin of his arm. ’N-no, Bilbo.’

Bilbo stretched up further and drew his teeth up Thorin’s side, biting in just centimetres from his nipple. ‘I didn’t hear you,’ he cajoled softly. ‘Say it again. _Louder_.’

He rolled his hips in emphasis and Thorin gasped, all but crying ‘No, Bilbo!’ as he writhed against the table, hands finding the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip; Bilbo gave an uncharacteristic smirk. He felt a heady rush of power at the hold he had over this royal dwarf, who could likely overpower him in a heartbeat if he truly wished — and who gave an unexpected buck of his hips, sending Bilbo drowning in molten ecstasy, grinding down strongly in response. After a moment he remembered himself and staggered away, gasping. Something burning shot through his veins and he narrowed his eyes at Thorin’s back.

‘You, Thorin _Oakenshield_ ,’ he gritted, unlacing his pants and stepping out of them with a sort of angry fervour, ‘are the most impatient, rude, ill-mannered dwarf I have _ever_ met.’ It didn’t take much to palm himself to full hardness as he stepped back to his place behind Thorin, breath coming in hot rasps fuelled by an oddly intoxicating mixture of annoyance, frustration and arousal. The thorny tangle in his chest was making itself known and his mind was degrading until all he wanted to do was fuck Thorin senseless. ‘Calling me a bloody _grocer_ ,’ he growled, sheathing himself completely with one merciless thrust, Thorin arching off the table and shouting hoarsely. ‘Of all the things! A _grocer_! I wanted so dearly to teach you some _manners_.’ Bilbo drew back out until only his head was surrounded by Thorin’s thick heat, driving back in with all the strength he possessed. ‘Manners, Master Oakenshield,’ he gasped, grip on Thorin’s hips tightening until it would surely bruise, ‘are _important_.’

At first Bilbo forewent speed for power, drawing out achingly slowly and snapping back in to a cry or shout or rough oath from the dwarf beneath him, watching his muscular back rise and fall with the strength of his heaving breaths and his sweat-tangled hair stick to his skin. Gradually he built up the speed of his steady rhythm until he lost all finesse and simply slammed into Thorin mercilessly, the great wooden table creaking and shifting with each frenzied thrust. Bilbo could hear Thorin shouting through his haze of arousal, _‘yes, more more please more, harder Bilbo oh Mahâl yes that’s it, right there, Bilbo—’_ He angled his thrusts accordingly, until every time hit that spot of pure pleasure within Thorin and he was all clenching heat and rippling muscle and shaking thighs and Bilbo felt a searing pleasure pool deep inside him, rushing like gale-force winds and giving him wells of strength which he didn’t know he had, driving into Thorin until the world tilted and thunder cracked and his vision exploded with white, Thorin’s keening voice distant and lovely in his ears as the waves slowly ebbed and he blinked stars from his vision.

And stared.

Bilbo hadn’t exactly intended to follow through with his promise to Thorin, but it would seem that he had delivered; one of the table’s legs had actually broken beneath the strain, sending the table listing slightly as the others creaked in warning. He could only let out a gasped laugh laced with incredulity and pull Thorin away, letting him collapse to the rug as the remaining legs gave out and the table slumped to the ground with a resentful creak.

‘Well,’ he managed, passing a shaking hand through his curls. ‘Well.’ Thorin gave a muffled groan from where he had landed on the rug, and Bilbo couldn’t help his laughter, pressing one hand to his mouth as he doubled over and tears of mirth beaded in his eyes.

‘What?’ the dwarf king croaked irritably, peering up at him with one offended eye. Bilbo gave another giggle and waved him away as one would errant pipe-smoke, unable to completely look away from the completely unsalvageable dining table.

‘Oh, no, no, it’s not you. I broke it. I can’t believe I actually broke it.’

From the corner of his eye he saw Thorin glance at the ruined table, a quick dart of blue.

‘Truly,’ the dwarf grunted, rolling over and slumping forwards into a sit, ‘it is inconceivable that _I_ would be first to break, after all.’ He sounded extremely snooty and for a moment Bilbo truly believed that he was back to the king who had first stalked in through his door, and he had actually opened his mouth to say something offended before he saw the amusement glittering through icy irises and clamped it shut, an odd feeling in his stomach.

‘Your sense of humour really is lacking,’ Bilbo grumbled and folded his arms, though without any real heat. Thorin merely gave him an arrogant smirk which soon disappeared into a wince as he struggled to his feet.

‘Oh,’ Bilbo muttered, erring in sympathy despite himself. ‘That.’

‘Yes, that,’ Thorin said and cast him an exasperated look. He didn’t say anything further as he collected his clothes, gracefully pulling on his trousers and shirt (Bilbo mourned the loss) and the hobbit quickly snapped out of his ogling, tugging on his own pants as he wondered what was to happen. The warmth suffusing his body, aftermath of what was probably one of, if not _the_ , best orgasms he’d ever had, would not allow him to feel too negative; but still he tossed about the idea that Thorin would never want to see him again.

He _was_ a king, after all. A king which Bilbo had just fucked into his dining table.

Blast.

‘Master Baggins, I expect that I shall be seeing you again soon,’ Thorin said briskly as he shrugged on his fur overcoat, and Bilbo only had a moment to watch that clever mouth and mourn that he’d never be able to put it to more amorous uses before his words registered and Bilbo snapped back to reality.

‘What?’ he asked, mouth gaping. He was quite sure that he looked like a complete idiot but Thorin merely raised his eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

‘I did come here to scout the fourteenth member of our company, Master Baggins,’ he began lowly, sauntering up until the hobbit was forced to crane his head back to see his little smirk, ‘and I must say… _Bilbo_ …that I find you quite suitable indeed.’

Bilbo merely blinked at him for a moment before scrunching his nose up against the smile threatening to break out. ‘ _Quite suitable_ , hmm?’ he asked, hands on hips. ‘And what talents does this little _adventure_ require which I have demonstrated to prove my suitability?’

Thorin huffed out a laugh and bent down slightly so that Bilbo could see the smile warming his sharp features, the soft curve of his lips and the wrinkles spreading across his temple, and realise that he was in quite a lot of trouble. He didn’t have time to fret over this, however; Thorin took his smaller hand and pressed it to his furs, and although he could not feel its beat Bilbo knew it to be the spot above his heart.

‘Oh,’ Thorin whispered, his breath a warm ghost across Bilbo’s lips, ‘just a little bit of _burglary_.’

 

 


	2. II: Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sensory deprivation and Thorin being a little shit tbh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say that this is all NightShadowCanDream and Trelane83’s faults for their lovely comments and ideas. You and your amazing encouragement :’)
> 
> But really thank you all, I was truly blown away by your reaction to the first chapter and hope that you support it becoming a sequel. There are around seven more chapters planned and I don't know how this happened at all. There is not enough sub!Thorin/dom!Bilbo in the world.
> 
> I installed a nifty little thing where if you hover over any Khuzdûl words with your mouse, it'll give a translation. For those on phones, there's still a list in the end notes.

_Sweat glistened in a prickling wave across his skin, curling the hairs at his nape and stinging across his forehead. Dizzily he could hear his own breath rasping out, feel the wrinkled sheets beneath his knees and the wooden bar of the headboard in his grip, feel the ache in his thighs and back; but with perfect clarity he felt the slick skin beneath his other hand, the hip curving into his palm, the blazing heat all around him, the dwarf King who was keening and writhing beneath, gasping out his name in stuttered moans. It was heat and passion but also trust and care, and he felt fire tear through his veins as the dwarf threw back his head with a hoarse cry —_

Bilbo jolted out of the daydream with a blink, his head shooting up from where it had been drooping lower and lower into the tempting circle of his folded arms. For a moment he merely stared at the wall of barrels before him, disoriented, sure that he could feel hot skin beneath his hand, smell sweat and pine and musk, hear his name on that lovely rich _ruined_ voice…but the warmth soon seeped away and he fisted his hand, only empty air ghosting against his palm. A bout of rowdy laughter broke through Bilbo's daze and he wrinkled his nose down at the stained bartop. He raked a hand through his curls, feeling the ghost of coiling muscles beneath his skin and scowling heavily.

That same darned scene, over and over again. His traitorous, hopeful mind kept returning to the imagined fantasy — every night in his sleep, and now when he dozed in the _day_ — even though his conscious self knew perfectly well that there was little chance of a repeat, given the subject of said fantasy’s attitude towards him.

Oh, yes. Thorin Oakenshield. The giving end of countless barked orders, rude works, derisive comments, and disdainful glares from cool blue eyes, who had _lured_ Bilbo from his hobbit smial and taken him across the Shire to Bree on what was already one of the most unpleasant trips he’d ever participated in, even though it had only been a week. There had been sheeting rain. There had been hard ground with barely a bedroll to sleep on. There had been a torn-out pocket for a handkerchief. And there had been hours upon hours of riding something which felt more like a jagged boulder than a pony, until they had _finally_ reached the gates of the small town. Bilbo winced and shifted where he sat, feeling a jab of pain lance up his spine and darkly cursing that…that _creature_ within the safe confines of his mind for what felt like the thousandth time. And His Majesty’s derisive snorts whenever Bilbo sneezed or flinched or fumbled with the reins _had not helped in the least_. Had it not been for the very vivid dreams which Bilbo’s mind continued to torture him with and the very broken table which Bilbo had abandoned in Bag End, he almost would have thought the entire encounter to have been imagined.

But no, Bilbo thought gloomily, tracing nonsense patterns onto the age-smoothed wood, following the curve of a black circle burned into the surface. It _had_ happened. And he was quite sure that Thorin hadn’t taken any memory-sapping knocks to the head lately. So he was left with a number of options pertaining to Thorin’s cold behaviour — he was embarrassed to have submitted to a hobbit, he wished to keep the respect of his company, he had only meant their encounter as a one-time occurrence, or it had merely been a method of ensuring Bilbo’s company on their quest.

The first three, Bilbo would accept, if not with good grace; but the last was utterly unacceptable in his view — it would make Thorin an absolute liar, an honourless manipulator, and Bilbo the fool who had been taken in. Then again...recalling the final words which Thorin had spoken before leaving, the hands which had cradled his own and pressed to a warm chest, the eyes of soft blue which had regarded him with such painful openness, Bilbo couldn’t truly bring himself to believe it.

So what by ever-loving Yavanna did the idiot think he was playing at?

Bilbo buried his head into his hands with a groan. All of this _thinking_ was doing him in. Trust Thorin to make things needlessly complicated! He’d thought himself over the worst of his frustration after completing such…tension-relieving activities, but now the very same dwarf who’d dispelled his tension was building it right back up. Bilbo couldn’t deny that after a few of Thorin’s more stinging comments, he’d been sorely tempted to shout out their _relations_ to the surrounding dwarves, or perhaps give a more physical demonstration. He could still remember how it’d felt to wrap Thorin’s braids around his fists, much more pleasant reigns than the worn leather ones which Myrtle sported. The exact feeling of Thorin’s lips against his, though, was gradually fading.

Giving in to temptation, Bilbo glanced briefly over to the corner of Bree’s Prancing Pony which the dwarves had commandeered. They were just barely visible through the thick smoke and dim lighting. Fili and Kili, however, towered above even the tallest of Men where they danced a rowdy jig atop the table. The dark head of their uncle was concealed, and disappointment jabbed at Bilbo's stomach, bringing down his mood even further. He immediately felt disgusted with himself — sitting there, mooning over an obviously disinterested dwarf King like some lovestruck toad. Hiding his face in his mug with a mutter and a scowl, he didn’t notice his company until they spoke with a rough voice laced with derision.

‘This ale not to your tastes, Burglar?’

Bilbo snapped his head to the side, barely refraining from spilling his ale, only to nearly drop his tankard when his eyes fell upon King Thorin Oakenshield himself leaning against the bar facing him, thick brow coolly arched, sleeves rolled up past the elbow he'd propped upon the wood. Bilbo very much did not stare at the exposed forearm, instead scoffing quietly and returning to his drink, turning his scowl to the ranks of casks stacked behind the bar.

‘There are many things in this tavern not to my tastes, Your Majesty, and the ale is not one of them.’

For a moment Bilbo thought he saw the King’s derisive expression waver. ‘How very stinging, Burglar. I would almost believe that you do not desire my company.’

Bilbo brought his tankard to his lips and muttered into it. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be wrong.’ He peeped at the King over the rim and saw his kingly demeanour fall away completely, moulding into a smirk as he relaxed his posture into a predatory lounge.

‘And why would that be?’ Thorin drawled — because it was Thorin now, Thorin as Bilbo knew him — one long index finger pressing into the side of his lips in a would-be-casual move. Bilbo fought back an exasperated sigh at the absolute ridiculousness of this hanged dwarf.

‘Oh, _I_ wonder,’ Bilbo replied, ire beginning to seep into his tone like acid into ice. ‘Maybe it’s how you treated me over the past week. _Maybe_ it’s because the only time you weren’t ignoring me was when you were scowling at me or drawling some sort of acerbic comment. Maybe it’s because you have done nothing but belittle me for this _entire bloody trip_!’ Bilbo realised that he was beginning to attract attention from nearby Men and lowered his voice to a venomous hiss. ‘Maybe it’s because you’ve been a complete and utter _asshole_ and I want nothing at all to do with you.’

Thorin stared at him for a moment with an expression of mild bewilderment.

‘No, I do not recall such matters.’

Bilbo slapped a palm to his forehead and looked to the ceiling for patience, fiery anger whipping through his chest at the…the…the complete and utter _idiocy_ currently being displayed by Thorin bloody Oakenshield.

‘Yavanna above, Thorin!’ Bilbo forced through gritted teeth. His temples were beginning to throb again. ’You are the single most _irritating_ creature I have ever had the displeasure to meet.’

‘I take pleasure in it,’ Thorin said smoothly. The smirk pulling at his beard was unfairly handsome and Bilbo was very tempted to slam his own head on the table…or quite possibly Thorin’s. Now _there_ was an idea. But he refrained, unfortunately, because this was a tavern in Bree and he knew from experience that brawls were likely to begin at the mere drop of a hat — or, in this case, drop of a certain dwarf King.

Instead Bilbo merely buried his face in his hands for the third time that night and let loose a muffled groan. ’I know you do.’

There was a marked silence from Thorin, and after a moment Bilbo left the cage of his fingers to peer at him suspiciously. He _knew_ that silence. Knew it very well. And there they were! The curve of his ears, half-obscured by both spiralling locks of hair and silver ear-cuffs, were turning a very familiar and betraying shade of red.

‘Oh, my, you truly do enjoy it…Where are you going with this, Thorin?’ he snapped, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. The dwarf merely averted his brilliant eyes, his bottom lip thinning as he drew it between sharp white teeth — no, no, no, Bilbo was _not_ going there. Thorin was to be punished, not rewarded…though for him, the two were one and the same, weren’t they?

Thorin paused as if he was actually considering the question. ‘Perhaps your bedroom?’ He punctuated this with a smouldering look from beneath his unnaturally long eyelashes, mouth pulling into a curve as Bilbo gave the tiniest of whines. The sight snapped him from his trance and he sat up straight, the twinge of pain in his tailbone simply adding to his ire as he jabbed a finger into the dwarf’s chest — and my, wasn’t that familiar. Except unfortunately this time there was no dwarven armour to conceal the hard plane of muscle beneath…oh dear.

‘No, no, no!’ Bilbo hissed, a somewhat desperate edge to his voice. ‘Not this time, Thorin Oakenshield! You are not allowed to treat me like, like, like _mud_ on your clumping boot then get me to sleep with you! It is _not_ going to work!’

‘Hmm…’ Thorin hummed, a bass vibration deep in his throat as he slid forwards and tilted his chin back a little to level his gaze up at Bilbo consideringly, just happening to bare the long and tempting line of his throat. ‘Then what say you punish me? Come now, Bilbo, release a little of that tension…’ He ran a calloused finger down Bilbo’s spine, the brand of it burning through his thin cotton shirt as though it wasn’t there.

Bilbo gave in completely, to both his raging Took side and Thorin, abruptly trapping one of the dwarf’s braids in his fist and tugging his face closer with a rough jerk. ‘Fine,’ he whispered hotly, vision filled by Thorin’s swiftly darkening eyes. ‘Fine. But we are doing this _my_ way. Understand?’ Thorin gave a mute nod and Bilbo loosened his hold, straightening and giving a long breath against the heat beating through him. ‘Go to my room and wait there. Undress yourself completely and kneel by the armchair to the left of the fireplace — in fact, kindle the fire while you’re at it. I shouldn’t have to tell you not to touch yourself.’ He released the braid completely and gave Thorin a sharp nod, who seemed to hesitate a little, eyes darkly intent on Bilbo, before slipping off through the crowd. The hobbit watched him go with carefully controlled breaths, running a thumb up and down the length of his suspenders and planning.

Neither of the two noticed a pair of bright brown eyes darting quickly between them.

 

:::

 

Bilbo slipped silently through the door to his room, softly closing it with a near-inaudible creak. He padded to the small dresser by the nicely proportioned bed and set down the items which he had brought with him, shrugging his suspenders off his shoulders and easily slipping free the top three buttons of his shirt. He glanced around the small room with appreciation; it was such luck that the inn had had a proper — or as they called it, _hobbit-_ sized room for him and him alone. The rest of the Company were forced to divide through five ridiculously massive rooms. He was already eagerly anticipating sleeping on a heavenly bed, and a real one, without the snores or smell or night-mutterings of the dwarves. Peace and quiet and isolation, very nice indeed, he mused.

Though of course, Bilbo was not entirely alone at that moment.

He finally allowed his eyes to flicker to the grate at the other end of the darkened room, its reddish light stark against the soft moonlight shafting in through the windows beside the bed. Gilded a warm golden by the glow of the flames, a dwarf knelt quietly by the dark silhouette of an armchair, head lowered and profile obscured by a thick curtain of dark hair. Motionless contours of muscles were traced by the firelight, ancient scars thrown into relief, his hands clasped together atop his powerful thighs.

Bilbo began to fiddle with the suspender which had fallen to hang by his leg. He was enchanted by the sight, undoubtedly, but also intimidated — that was a _King_ kneeling there completely at his mercy, in his comparatively inexperienced hands, his pleasure at Bilbo’s every whim. But he also knew that Thorin would be quite capable of anger, or worse, disappointment, were he to make a mistake.

Tracing his eyes over the glowing contours of Thorin’s body, Bilbo shook himself from the odd mood. He’d done this quite well once before…and _he_ was the one provoked, the one seeking compensation, not Thorin. There was no reason nor room for self doubt. He padded over to the armchair noiselessly, but something — the shift of the air, the stir of his scent — must have alerted Thorin to the hobbit's presence and his head snapped around in an almost animalistic move. It was clear that he was on edge, his warrior’s instinct awakened, and Bilbo gave a quick smile as he came to stand before him. The rug was plushly comfortable beneath his feet; with Thorin staring up at him with wide and luminous eyes he felt soft content warm his skin. Bilbo drifted his fingers down Thorin’s jaw, watching his eyelids slide shut at the light touch, before taking his chin and sweeping his thumb across Thorin’s lips.

So that was how they felt. Not soft, but chapped, and blazing hot.

‘You’ve done very well,’ Bilbo murmured, sliding his fingers up to Thorin’s hairline and massaging along his scalp, watching as the dwarf melted into the touch. His propensity for compliments Bilbo had discovered last time; the urge to explore it a little was magnetic. His touch paused when it came to the spot of thickest silver by Thorin's hairline, where his braids should have begun. ’You even undid your braids.’ The metallic glint of his nipple piercing, too, was missing, but Bilbo only spared a moment to mourn...its absence would soon prove very useful.

At his words Thorin’s eyes drifted open and he tilted his chin, almost as if defying Bilbo to find protest with the action. Bilbo arched an eyebrow.

‘Am I to understand that there is some sort of significance to that move?’ he questioned softly as he resumed the movement of his hand. Despite himself he jolted slightly as Thorin — there was no other word for it, he _purred_ , a pleased rumble from deep in his chest. Heart racing and perhaps just melting a little, Bilbo couldn’t help wondering if it was some sort of dwarven thing.

Or, he thought as his dwarf eyed him with new trepidation, perhaps it was simply a _Thorin_ thing.

‘Exquisite,’ Bilbo said, drifting his fingers to cup the base of Thorin’s jaw. Thorin leaned the full weight of his head onto the touch, eyes slightly glazed as he blinked at Bilbo sleepily.

‘It is very fortunate for you that you are, else I certainly wouldn’t have been so forgiving after the stunts you’ve pulled this week.’

He felt Thorin’s consciousness snap back in the clench of his jaw and the sudden wary clarity in his eyes, the line of his body almost imperceptibly tensing at the change in Bilbo’s tone. Bilbo merely tilted the dwarf’s head further back and hushed him.

‘This is what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?’ A sudden understanding came to him and he didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a very close thing and his exasperation was clear in his voice. ‘You were needling me on purpose so that I would become angry and _punish_ you.’

Bilbo’s suspicions were confirmed when Thorin’s mouth fell open on a soft gasp, his pupils once more dilating.

‘Tsk. You could’ve just _asked_ ,’ he chided, bending down so that his nose was a hairsbreadth from Thorin’s own. ‘Or have you forgotten the lesson which I taught you? Manners are important, aren’t they?’

He felt the breath of Thorin’s quiet words brush against his lips as he spoke them. ‘Yes, Bilbo.’

‘And you haven’t had very good manners lately, have you?’ Bilbo pursed his lips and leaned back as he took his hand away, Thorin rocking forward slightly on his knees at the loss of support. ‘I suppose that I will simply have to go over it again, hmm?’

Thorin’s voice was cracked and wanting. ‘Yes, Bilbo.’

Bilbo couldn’t help smiling down at him, brushing a quick touch against the wrinkles at his temple. ‘Get up and lie on the bed on your stomach, however’s comfortable. I’m just going to prepare a few things.’

Thorin rose with all the grace of a trained soldier as Bilbo darted over to the dresser, and he quickly looked away from the sight and briskly twitched his nose. Scrubbing a knuckle against the reddened skin of his cheek he fumbled for the various items which he’d managed to collect from the inn downstairs, using his innocent height and a flash of his dimples to explain away the odd collection.

He’d only learned about them from some rather daring dalliances in his youth and from certain segments of the more…sordid tales which resided within Bag End’s library. They were tested and absolutely safe, but of course Bilbo would seek Thorin’s consent before doing anything. It was only proper, and more than that — Thorin had placed trust in him, and from the little he’d gleaned from the dwarf’s past trust had been very hard to come by and very easily broken, and he could feel its fragility tangible as if it were a glass carving in his hand.

Thorin’s skin was warm as Bilbo had remembered it. He came to kneel beside the dwarf and ran a hand down his exposed spine; he could feel the twitch of muscles as the dwarf shuddered, and felt the warmth inside his chest curl in pleasure.

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo murmured, stroking his fingers across the dimples etched into the small of his back.

‘Mm?’

‘There are some things which I would like to…try, if you are amenable. But we must discuss them. I am sorry for the delay, but I promise you that it will be worth it.’

Thorin had stifled a groan into the sheets at Bilbo’s first words, but at the end he had gone very still for a moment, before rolling to a sit and regarding Bilbo with a spark of interest in his expressive eyes.

‘Then discuss it we shall,’ Thorin said huskily, and Bilbo smiled as he arranged the items on the spotless white sheets. He watched Thorin’s features carefully as the dwarf regarded them. He almost felt a little anxious until Thorin’s gaze met his and he saw a familiar darkness within.

‘Tell me,’ he demanded.

With a slightly despairing shake of his head at the spoilt tone, Bilbo drifted his fingers to the first item — a length of velvet, wide as the breadth of Thorin’s spread hand and four times as long. ‘This,’ Bilbo began, keeping his calm gaze on Thorin, ‘is for your eyes. The loss of sight makes the other senses stronger — hearing, taste, smell…touch.’

The emotion tracing Thorin’s eyes was not quite readable, so Bilbo moved to the next — a clay bowl, filled with shaved ice, melted enough not to stick but not yet in a pool of water.

‘This is how we exploit that sensitivity,’ he continued, tapping a blunt nail on the clay rim. ‘The ice is an odd sensation, but pleasurable, or so I’ve been told. It’s meant to be a nice contrast.’ Bilbo gestured to the fire absently and Thorin tore his eyes from Bilbo briefly to study it, before they snapped back to place. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Thorin’s unceasing attention, and could only hope that it was a good thing.

Bilbo next indicated a pair of smooth porcelain clamps. 'These are for…well.’ Thorin’s breath audibly stuttered as Bilbo leaned forwards with a tiny almost-smirk, stopping altogether when the hobbit swept the rough pad of his thumb over Thorin’s nipple. ‘I don’t have to _tell_ you, do I?’ His voice came out much hoarser than usual but he ignored it and leaned back once more, looking to the final item, Thorin’s gaze a hungry weight upon him.

‘And this was extremely difficult to get hold of, so I dearly hope you appreciate it. The poor shopkeeper was staring at me as though he’d never seen a hobbit before! Such things are usually used by healers, you see, to test the sensitivity of skin.’ Bilbo flicked the head of the metal contraption lightly, watching as it spun on its axis, blunt spikes shining in the firelight. ‘It looks fearsome, but I can assure you that it brings no pain.’

He looked up to find Thorin suddenly much closer, his vision filled with searing black eyes and dark hair, nose by the sharp, earthy scent of pine and leather. ‘Unless I wish it,’ Thorin said in a voice of pure midnight.

Bilbo’s voice came out a little more breathless than he would’ve liked. ‘Unless you wish it,’ he agreed, and fought the urge to press a hand against his pounding heart as Thorin drew away slowly. Hang that dwarf! Poor Bilbo would be getting a heart attack soon, and mark his words, it would be entirely the fault of Thorin Oakenshield.

‘Anyway,’ Bilbo continued valiantly, clearing his throat against the heat flushing his chest, ‘there is more. Such play does involve risk, and the last thing I want to do is actually hurt you or make you uncomfortable.’ He scoffed a little at the thought. ‘So, there is a system devised for such things. _Hot_ means ‘more’. _Warm_ means ‘continue’. _Lukewarm_ means that you are unsure, or want me to slow down. _Cold_ means that you want a short break, and _freezing_ means ‘stop right now’.’ Bilbo levelled a very serious look at Thorin, who already — and predictably — looked displeased and perhaps slightly ruffled by the system. ‘Telling me to stop or slow down does _not_ make you weak or something equally silly,’ he said firmly. The importance of this was more dire than he could possibly express. ‘In fact, it is a very honourable and brave thing to do, to express your needs in bed and know your own limits. I will not be doing _anything_ to you tonight if you don’t agree to and apply the system properly, understand?’

Thorin remained unreadably tense for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw working, before his head dipped in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, Bilbo.’

‘Very good,’ Bilbo smiled approvingly, patting Thorin’s shoulder before abruptly becoming dry-mouthed and tearing his hand away. He’d forgotten that Thorin was completely bare — how could he possibly have forgotten? — and the feeling of warm muscles and smooth skin had reawakened the thrumming heat in his chest.

‘So,’ Bilbo reaffirmed — he was nothing if not stubborn — ‘Do you know the system?’

Thorin glanced up at him from beneath thick brows, unintentionally coy. ‘Aye — freezing, cold, lukewarm, warm, hot.’

Bilbo nodded. ‘Good. I’ll check in every now and then — I’ll likely just say ‘temperature,’ and if you say one of the cooler or don’t respond I will stop immediately. Safety is extremely vital when doing such things,’ he maintained determinedly. Thorin’s mouth twitched and he received the distinct feeling that the cheeky sod was internally laughing at his expense.

‘Alright then, let’s start with the blindfold,’ Bilbo said, sounding slightly huffy as he shuffled forwards on his knees and angled Thorin’s head with touch. ‘Is this alright?’ he asked much more softly as he pinned the blue velvet at the back of Thorin’s head, taking care not to tangle the fastenings with any dark hair.

‘…Warm,’ Thorin answered after a pause, and Bilbo touched his stubbled cheek approvingly. There was an odd note to the dwarf’s tone, but listening carefully to his tone Bilbo didn’t think it to be anything too negative. Still, he would be keeping a careful watch on him; he didn’t entirely trust Thorin not to be too stubborn for his own good.

‘Lovely. Lie back, please — head on the pillows,’ Bilbo directed, a white heat flaring deep in the pit of his stomach when Thorin complied immediately. He’d been the control in such situations before — the reverse position had never truly worked for him after…well, after — but never with someone so strong, tall, or prideful as the King Under The Mountain, and it was a truly incredible thing. For a moment Bilbo feared that he would be ruined for anyone else, but then he remembered that nobody else much wanted him anyway.

However, the sight of Thorin Oakenshield stretched out and blindfolded banished such melancholy thoughts with an awfully quick speed.

Bilbo had known that the rich royal shade of the blindfold would well suit Thorin’s colouring, but actually seeing it before him was better than anything he could’ve imagined. Against the dark of his hair and the slight coppery tinge to his skin, on the right made a lovely sheen by the light of the fire, on the left turned soft and pale by the moonlight, the dark blue was a beautiful contrast. The visible parts of Thorin’s face were relaxed and open, the pink of his mouth just visible through his neat beard.

Oh, how Bilbo wanted to touch. How he _had_ wanted to touch, every sodding day of their ridiculous adventure — and now he finally could, and was not wasting the chance given to him, oh no no no. He would be ashamed to call himself a Took _or_ a Baggins if that happened.

First Bilbo reached for the spiked wheel, the slender metal handle cool against his skin. Careful to keep the contact light and barely-there, he circled his fingers around Thorin’s wrist and ran the instrument up the sensitive inside of Thorin’s forearm. His reaction was immediate, a harsh gasp slipping from his mouth as he arched off the bed.

Bilbo glanced over at him quickly, halting in his movement. ‘Temperature?’ he asked, voice just bordering on sharp, praying that the stubborn creature would be honest with his answer.

‘Hot,’ Thorin growled heatedly, and _well_ , Bilbo certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

‘Very good,’ he replied in a somewhat strangled tone, releasing Thorin’s arm and moving to straddle his abdomen. The familiar sensation of heat throbbing along with his heartbeat washed through him and he drew in a shaky breath, bracing himself with a palm against the pillow by Thorin’s jaw. Bilbo’s eyes were fixated upon Thorin’s face where his mouth had fallen open to make way for his panting breaths, the furrow of his brow suggesting that his eyes had clamped shut.

Bilbo ran the wheel down the line of Thorin’s sternum, adding the slightest of pressure when Thorin groaned and panted out _‘Hot’_ once again. Drawing it back up that strong chest he could feel the dwarf shudder beneath him, obviously reigning in the desire to move or buck or touch, perhaps instinctively knowing not to seek control by touching Bilbo, for which he was grateful. The thought sent a sudden surge of possessiveness through him and he twisted his wrist, turning the wheel on its side and scraping the spikes across his right nipple. Thorin keened and threw his head back — upon coming back to himself Bilbo was forced to ask his temperature multiple times before he answered in a rough rasp.

‘Warm.’

Bilbo let out a relieved huff, slightly shaken by Thorin’s brief lack of response…well, _verbal_ response. Bilbo was very well able to feel Thorin’s unclothed cock a hairsbreadth away from the small of his back — much like Thorin’s hands, its heat seemed to burn effortlessly through the material of his shirt.

Noticing the trail of light marks patterned down Thorin’s sternum, Bilbo leaned forwards in order to better see them and brushed his fingers up the pattern. It was an innocent touch but Thorin _howled._   His muscles bunched beneath Bilbo’s thighs as his hips arched up, forcing Bilbo to yelp and grab his shoulders. After a suspended moment Thorin dropped back down with a short, ruined sound and a full-body shudder, his lips mouthing wordlessly.

‘H-hot,’ he said incoherently, before he was even asked, and Bilbo’s mind slid away from him a little because he’d never heard Thorin _stutter_ so. Daringly the hobbit leaned down and licked a stripe up the indented marks, leaving Thorin senselessly babbling as his head thrashed and his fists came up to press white-knuckled into his lips. Bilbo guided his wrists away carefully, lacing his fingers with Thorin’s broader ones as he leaned down to kiss him — for the first time that night, he realised absently. However insane or potentially unhealthy it may have logically sounded Thorin’s lips felt _right_ against his and they were too sweet for him to leave so soon, lingering to trade brushing kisses with a lightly shivering Thorin.

‘Temperature.’

Bilbo watched Thorin’s throat bob as he swallowed. ‘Cold,’ he mumbled, and the hobbit slipped off his torso with a relieved smile — it was good that Thorin’s pride bent enough for him to admit that he wished to slow down at least, and Bilbo finally started to feel his heated frustration seep away.

‘Truly, you are unique.’ He took Thorin’s palm and pressed a kiss to it, before nipping a little with a sudden playfulness. At Thorin’s somewhat strangled huff of laughter he grinned quickly, stretching just enough to retrieve the cool porcelain clamps before returning to the dwarf’s side — as if compelled, or magnetised. Bilbo knelt by Thorin’s side and leaned down, feeling Thorin jolt as he pressed his lips to his exposed ear, watching in delight as the ridiculously (adorably) large appendages reddened.

‘Are you ready for the clamps?’ he whispered, stroking down Thorin’s chest, dangerously close to the nipple over which he’d dragged the wheel. Almost imperceptibly the dwarf arched into the touch, before moving his own head and turning Bilbo’s tricks against him by speaking into his own highly sensitive ear.

‘Very,’ Thorin purred, and Bilbo smacked his chest with a huff. He didn’t miss the way which Thorin’s breath hitched at the gentle hit, either — something to explore another time, perhaps. Bilbo felt oddly warmed at the thought.

‘Cheeky,’ Bilbo admonished, feeling a little smug as Thorin huffed and settled back into the pillows. Teasing was _his_ job, thank you very much. ‘Now,’ he began, rubbing a thumb across one of the clamps, ‘I want you to tell me _immediately_ after I put it on where you stand on the scale. Alright?’

‘Yes, Bilbo.’

Bilbo wetted his dry lips, tasting the honey and wheat from Thorin’s own, and reached down to warningly brush against peaked nipples before easing the first onto the left bud. Thorin gasped as if doused in ice-cold water and Bilbo paused, glaring expectantly into the velvet across Thorin’s eyes as though the dwarf could actually see it.

‘Warm,’ Thorin rasped almost pleadingly, his voice breaking halfway though. Bilbo made soothing noises and pushed his sweat-curled hair back from his forehead, pausing a little to assess his features carefully before clamping on the second.

‘By Durin’s name, Bilbo!’ the dwarf cursed, arching and pressing his head back into the pillow. ‘Hot, hot, _tazrimi ni biriz ra kibil_ …Mahâl above.’ Bilbo grinned down at him and he knew it might have been slightly feral, but there wasn’t anyone there too see it and he was too ensnared by the enchanting sight beneath him. He bent down to oh-so-lightly graze his teeth against one nipple, feeling a rush of victory at Thorin’s breathy keen, before leaning up to breathe hotly on the sensitive spot beneath Thorin’s ear.

‘Mmm,’ Bilbo hummed lazily, delighting at the way each of Thorin’s quick breaths came close to a whine of pleasure. ‘You look _delicious_.’ He gently bit at his chosen patch of skin, knowing that it would be so much more sensitive with Thorin’s vision gone. Trailing down the column of Thorin’s neck, he kept his kisses and licks barely more than teasing brushes, allowing the clamped nipples time to adjust to the foreign feeling. Trusting the entirety of his weight to his knees, Bilbo traced his fingers up Thorin’s hard sides, lightly enough to tingle, some part of him feeling a little sad at the lack of healthy cushioning and the scar tissue which existed instead.

Thorin’s next breath came hissed from between clenched teeth and Bilbo counted it as a victory.

‘Temperature?’ he asked against the hollow of Thorin’s throat, just in case.

‘Burning,’ the dwarf rasped. Bilbo threw him a bit of a dry look — now _that_ certainly wasn’t part of the system — but he took the affirmation for what it was and reached for the small clay bowl. Seconds later he drew his cold lips up the taut muscles of Thorin’s abdomen, the dwarf’s exclamation of surprise swiftly melding into a frenzied mixture of pants and soft whines. His body was heaving beneath Bilbo’s tongue, blazing heat against his icy mouth. As he mouthed his way to Thorin’s chest he felt hazy, almost drunk, intoxicated by this dwarf as though his every reaction was pure nectar. When Bilbo reached Thorin’s nipple he rolled his hidden fragment of ice over his tongue, the thin sheet pressing into Thorin’s sensitive skin. 

This was met with a mumbled string of Khuzdûl — _mênu tessu,_ _madtubirzul,_ _badgûn,_ _khebabmudtu,_ _labathmizu —_ and when Bilbo glanced up he saw Thorin’s expression blanked to one of pure bliss, his head tilted dreamily to the side. Had he not seen the same reaction in past partners he would likely have been more than a little concerned, but Thorin was merely feeling the effects of the sensory deprivation.

‘Right, this is going to hurt, love, so take a deep breath,’ Bilbo directed, hands fluttering about the nipple clamps. The pet name which he’d so carelessly used didn’t even register until he felt Thorin still, Bilbo copying the action and freezing. He hadn’t — it had just — slipped out, oh Yavanna —

Bilbo’s frenzied thoughts were broken by a soft brush against his cheek, and he realised that Thorin had touched him for the first time — yet it wasn’t unpleasant, the very hands which wielded blade and axe impossibly careful against his skin, nothing like — nevermind. Bilbo’s eyes darted belatedly to Thorin’s face, and the gentle smile which he saw there, whether a mere by-product of his submissive high or not, stole the air from the hobbit’s lungs entirely.

‘Breathe in,’ Bilbo said, very softly. Obeying without thought, Thorin inhaled deeply and Bilbo quickly pulled off the clamps.

‘ _Augh._ ’ Thorin gave a noise much as he had hit him too hard in the stomach during sparring, his throat working as a deep groan shuddered from his chest. He even seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and Bilbo’s hands were immediately at his face.

‘Thorin?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Alright?’

‘It’s just… _amhâhul_ …I cannot describe it,’ Thorin breathed. He sounded nearly _reverential_. ‘It is good. It is definitely good. I lost myself for a moment, I apologise.’ His head tilted in Bilbo’s direction, and he could almost feel the muted blaze of those brilliant eyes upon him. ‘Please do not stop, Bilbo.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Bilbo said, a little dubious.

‘Hot.’

‘Very well then,’ he replied. His attention was swiftly more drawn to Thorin’s nipples, which he knew to now be a thousand times more sensitive to even the lightest brush of a feather. At first Bilbo merely circled his fingers teasingly around the dusky purple skin, trailing through dark curls of hair, amusement lightened his mood as Thorin became predictably impatient and began to twitch.

‘Bilbo, pray cease your teasing,’ the dwarf said testily. Bilbo grinned down at him, feeling very satisfied at being the annoying little shit for once after how Thorin had acted over the past week, and especially after the realisation that it’d all been _planned_.

‘Teasing?’ Bilbo asked all too innocently, giving a swift pinch to the left nipple as he added: ‘I thought this is what you wanted, love.’

Thorin’s abdomen fluttered between his thighs, the muscles in his jaw tensing as Bilbo continued to tease at the hypersensitive skin. ‘Nn…it is — it _was_ — I want…’

‘What do you want, dearest?’ the hobbit coaxed. ‘My hands? My fingers? My mouth?’ He punctuated this by pressing both thumbs down strongly and grinding into Thorin’s stomach. Thorin’s mouth fell open and he made the pained sound once more, thought this time Bilbo caught the undertone of delighted pleasure.

‘Want your tongue,’ Thorin gasped raggedly, as though the words were torn from him. ‘Want…want that… _amal-zirkâ_...spikes.’

By this Bilbo gathered that he wanted the spiked wheel. Happiness at Thorin voicing his desires alone would’ve driven him to use it immediately, and Bilbo’s own propensity for the item certainly didn’t hurt...not to mention the way Thorin shivered when he used it.

At the first touch of cool metal against his skin, Thorin gave a sound which sent trails of fire blazing down Bilbo’s spine and left him dazed and breathless. Addicted to his expressive — frantic — ruined — _beautiful_ noises the hobbit ran the wheel over the rough skin of Thorin’s nipple watching enchanted as he dissolved into pleasure and keened Bilbo’s name.

‘Oh — oh sweet Yavanna, _Thorin_ ,’ Bilbo moaned, burying his face into Thorin’s neck, his pointed nose in the odd silken softness of his hair, the fingers of his free hand raking down the planes of his chest. The dwarf arched up his hips wildly, seeking friction; Bilbo took his earlobe between his teeth and tugged.

‘B-Bilbo,’ Thorin cried. ‘ _Kahomhîlizu —_ please — _please —’_

Scrambling gracelessly off Thorin’s waist, Bilbo took pity on Thorin and closed his free hand about his straining cock. It was an angry shade of red, nearly purple, precome beading at the tip. If bites and nips and pinches had pleasured Thorin, Bilbo’s hand around his cock drove him _insane._ He lost all finesse and thrust up into the tight grip as he moaned without restraint. Throwing aside the spiked wheel heedlessly Bilbo reached to hurriedly unpin Thorin’s blindfold, the need to see his face impossible to resist.

Bilbo ran a thumb over the leaking slit and spread the liquid down the velvet-smooth cock, taking a better hold and giving a merciless pump, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as Thorin shouted hoarsely and threw his head from side to side, his long hair whipping about his face. His eyes were clenched tightly shut and Bilbo leaned forwards, adding a twist of his wrist as he took Thorin’s chin in a tight hold, the scrape of his beard distant through a hazy mist of pleasure.

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo rasped. ‘ _Look at me_.’

Only the barest glimpse of dazed blue eyes was gifted to him before Thorin stiffened and jerked into his hold, his mouth soundlessly falling open as the small of his back left the bed completely, eyelids dropping closed as dark eyebrows pinched in wordless pleasure. It was silent, aside for the groan of the bed and the scrabbling of Thorin’s heels against the sheets, but it was all the more gorgeous for it, somehow just as perfect as Thorin’s unfettered cries. White-hot shockwaves shattered Bilbo’s motionlessness and his hand shot to his own clothed cock. Two searing strokes were all he could manage before time flew away from him and he threw his head back, barely noticing the knuckle which he bit down on or the press of the sheets beneath his feet. The only thing which filtered through Bilbo’s splintered world was a pair of stunned pale eyes, fixed on his own as they stared half-lidded down past the hand which he panted into.

The first thing which he heard was Thorin.

‘And you name _me_ perfect,’ he breathed, his hoarse voice nearly lost in the slowly calming thunder of Bilbo’s heart. Bilbo allowed his hand to fall from his mouth, wincing a little at the purple indents against the tanned skin, and gave a breathless laugh as his eyes drank in a thoroughly exhausted, thoroughly pleasured Thorin. Perhaps Bilbo’s damn lesson on manners had penetrated that thick skull _now_.

‘Don't you dare wag that silver tongue of yours, I’m not in the mood.’ Bilbo flopped down across Thorin’s chest with a groan, scrunching up his nose when the stained fabric of his pants made itself known. ‘You, Master Oakenshield,’ he said, propping an elbow upon Thorin’s chest and poking him, ‘had better’ve learned your lesson.’

A smirk tugged at Thorin’s lips and clarity somewhat returned to his eyes, though the lines about them were still deep and tired. ‘I may have…though I believe it would be prudent to ensure it a few times in the future, merely to drive the point home.’

Bilbo’s chest warmed inexplicably; he found a returning smile bright and effortless, a little strength returning to his bones as he sat up — though his limbs still shook like precarious towers of raspberry jam. ‘To drive the point home, hmm?’ he asked playfully, slipping to his feet and stretching out his back. ‘Perhaps that can be arranged.’

And he winked and swaggered off to find a cloth, among other things.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KHUZDUL (warning: sap ahead)
> 
> Tazrimi ni biriz ra kibil: swimming in gold and silver -- pretty much 'to enjoy oneself'
> 
> Menu tessu: you are everything 
> 
> Madtubirzul: golden heart 
> 
> Badgûn: my One 
> 
> Khebabmudtu: ‘heart-forge’; the forge where my heart is made
> 
> Labathmizu: I adore you 
> 
> Amâhul: amazing
> 
> Amal-zirkâ: sharp pleasure
> 
> Kahomhîlizu: please
> 
>    
> :::
> 
>    
> One lesson learned from this chapter is that Thorin’s plans are really stupid but still work somehow (luckily he’s pretty -- and also really sappy. The tags do not lie.)
> 
> (also fair warning that this entire series is pretty much going to be porn)
> 
> And I don’t know that much about BDSM but I'm doing my best with research and please let me know if there’s something wrong/that I could improve on and I'll be sure to fix it up.
> 
> Any comments are super appreciated!! Next up: Rivendell ;))
> 
> ….oh god my search history right now *cringes*


	3. III: Rivendell (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bondage and paddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over Khuzdul for translations, or wait for the list at the end for those on phones :)

Bilbo stared at the sight before him, absolutely lost for words.

‘Good evening, Master Baggins,’ said Thorin, dipping his head with an amenable — yet regal — grace. ‘May I come in?’

The courteous movement caused the dark locks of his hair, caught up to a neat tail high on the back of his head, to tumble over his broad shoulder, and it did not much help the poor hobbit’s state of mind. The fact that Thorin had overlooked his usual bulky furs and armour for merely a rough blue shirt and buckskin pants was also more than a little distracting, the unbuttoned collar and pushed up sleeves showing entirely too much corded skin for Bilbo’s comfort. The dwarf wasn’t even wearing _shoes_ , for Aulë's sake, and after a moment of dull staring the hobbit was forced to tear his eyes away from oddly delicate toes.

‘Yes!’ Bilbo squeaked, before clearing his throat and stepping back from the door. ‘Um, yes, certainly. Of course. Don’t hang around out— out there. There. Out there. Please do come in.’

(And if he shamelessly ogled the dwarf as he brushed past in a swirl of body heat and swinging braids and delicious scents, Thorin would be none the wiser anyway and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.)

‘So, Master Baggins, are you enjoying the hospitality of the elves?’ Thorin asked in a seemingly innocuous tone of voice, but Bilbo could very well see the sharp glint in his eye, and there was a definite flavour of derision to his tone. It automatically sent Bilbo bridling — and something else as well, because on top of all of the other things which that damned dwarf had done to him irritation was now inexorably linked to arousal in his mind. Come to think of it though, when Kili had purposefully tried to step on his feet for the fifth Yavanna-blessed time, for the mere aim of idle curiosity, Bilbo’s cock certainly hadn’t taken such interest in the proceedings. Damn Thorin and damn everything about him. _Especially_ the hair. That thrice-hanged pony-tail! It was a style for hobbit lasses not yet reached maturity, how on Middle Earth Thorin could make such a thing _attractive_ was entirely beyond Bilbo's comprehension.

‘Oh, yes, very much,’ Bilbo said with a bland smile. His ever-present – yet somewhat depleted – well of irritation was now very much peaked. It prickled sullenly beneath his skin when Thorin scowled and straightened his back, framed against the airy Rivendell room with the afternoon sun lining his hair with gold – no, dammit, Bilbo was angry. _Angry._

‘Indeed,’ Thorin replied stiffly. His hands were clasped behind his back, but when he shifted in order to glare out the wide window most majestically Bilbo was afforded the slightest glimpse of a something or two in his grip. Before he could ask after their purpose Thorin spoke again, his rich voice holding a familiar contrary tone. ‘Perhaps I should not have sought your company, then. Perhaps you would prefer to canoodle with your beloved elves instead of spending time with your _Company_ ,’ Thorin spat. Bilbo did not miss the implications and puffed up in anger, rising to the balls of his feet, his shoulders going tense beneath new elven-made suspenders…not that Thorin had to know that particular detail. Hang on, it didn’t matter at all what Thorin thought! Bilbo couldn’t care in the least. A few amorous encounters, while nonetheless enjoyable, did not love make.

Bilbo huffed away the odd bitterness lacing his chest and planted his fists on his hips. ‘Excuse me, just because _I_ was the reasonable one and accepted a room instead of spending the night out on a _completely exposed_ balcony does not make me some sort of, some sort of traitor.’ He paused, before adding with ears reddened and voice high in rage, ‘and there will be no _canoodling_! Of any sort! Thank you very much!’ He was a hairsbreadth away from stomping his foot on the floor and only refrained because he knew that it would merely make him look like a petulant fauntling.

But _Bilbo_ was not the petulant fauntling in the room, as he was very firmly reminded when Thorin tutted and made a face at Bilbo, narrowing his eyes and scrunching up his nose. And no, Bilbo was not going to think of him as cute.

He was _not_.

Bilbo allowed his hands to slip from his hips and folded them instead. ‘Why did you come to my rooms in the first place, pray tell? Aside from the aim of needling me?’ the hobbit asked, voice somewhat calmer. This was familiar territory. Snarky insulting. No odd thoughts for him, no sir.

Seemingly in answer, instead of voicing a snarky reply Thorin cleared his throat and glanced away. He finally brought his hands away from his back and exposed the items in his right hand. His left came up to scratch at the back of his neck, the banded muscle of his forearm flexing with the movement, and he dipped his chin awkwardly.

And was that…yes, that was definitely a blush creeping in behind the dark cover of his beard.

Bilbo frowned. He was more than a little perturbed at the sight; though more so by the perplexing tingly  _fluttering_ going on in his stomach. Directing his attention to the item in Thorin’s hand, he focused on puzzling out its presence instead of on the fetching red dusting the dwarf's skin.

‘Is that...rope?’ he asked as he squinted at the silvery coil.

‘Among other things,’ Thorin replied slowly, deep voice slightly defensive. He was still resolutely avoiding Bilbo’s gaze and his blunt nails were rather obviously biting into the cord of his neck.

‘Oh,’ Bilbo said. When a few seconds passed with no elaboration forthcoming and Thorin still scowling at the floor, looking flustered and oddly — oddly _something_ , he added: ‘…So why do you have rope, if I may ask?’

Thorin’s glare intensified as though he could burn away his own embarrassment with the sheer power of concentration. ‘I was hoping that you might…if you were amenable…’ He trailed off once more and shook his head with a low rumbling growl of frustration which may or may not have done _things_ to Bilbo, before at last meeting his perplexed gaze with his own determined one. ‘I was hoping that you might use them on — on me,’ he gritted out.

Bilbo promptly forgot all thoughts of the abandoned book and snack tray lying on a nearby table, fingers turning numb as his blood rushed…elsewhere. ‘Re-eally,’ he drew out, rocking a little onto the balls of his feet. He was somewhat unsure. It wasn’t as though he was inexperienced in such matters; no, Bilbo'd had a fair few partners who enjoyed being tied up, so to speak, and was therefore quite proficient in knotwork and the safety measures which went along with it. And yet; Thorin had always, _always_ , been in control. It was obvious merely to look at him – he had a magnetic air of command, and past that the reverential looks of every dwarf in the Company. The fact also made it obvious why he would enjoy submitting. As Bilbo knew from experience, those in command — or vice versa — in day-to-day often enjoyed the opposite role in night-time activities, as a sort of stress relief. Likely why Bilbo, constantly underestimated and passed over by others, enjoyed control. But that aside: Thorin was a warrior, trained to constantly be on alert, to believe in nothing but his own sword, which _always_ had to be on hand. To give up control was to go against decades, perhaps even centuries, of ingrained instinct.

So the level of trust required to ask such a thing — of Bilbo _—_ was breathtaking.

Bilbo swallowed with a click, throat mysteriously dry.

‘Thorin, you truly want me to…Are you sure?’

Thorin nodded as Bilbo’s unsure voice faded away, a quick, reluctant jerk which sent a strand of his hair snapping out to spiral past his reddened ear. His dextrous fingers fiddled with the length of rope, and all of a sudden Bilbo’s poor muddled mind was positively flooded with possibilities.

‘Right,’ Bilbo breathed. ‘Right, well, erm. What else did you bri—’

He found himself quite unable to speak when Thorin drew out another unmistakable item, his flush now spreading down his throat and past the unbuttoned collar of his simple shirt.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Bilbo squeaked. Coherence. That would be very useful. Mental functioning. Words. Sounds. Yes, yes, those. He pulled his mind together with a desperate jerk, leaning against the table and supporting the unsteady movement with one oddly shaky arm. He swallowed once more, dipped his chin, twitched his nose, then looked up and held his hand out for the rope.

‘Shall we get started, then?’

Bilbo was highly relieved that his voice at least _worked_ , and was gifted for his efforts with a smile which was perfectly blinding, despite all its hesitance.

 

:::

 

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo murmured, his fingers playing down the naked stretch of his dwarf’s spine. ‘Are you — is this all right?’

‘It could be better,’ the dwarf replied archly. Bilbo didn’t even have time to give an indignant sputter before Thorin twisted with no small difficulty to look over his bare shoulder, the glimmer of amusement in his eyes belied by calmly raised eyebrows. Even bent over a large velvet footrest with his hands bound to a bedpost, with nothing but the afternoon sunlight to clothe him, he was irritatingly regal.

Bilbo tutted but decided to play along simply to be annoying. He drifted up his touch to play with the long tail of Thorin’s hair, twisting the silky strand about his fingers. ‘Mm, indeed? And how might _betterment_ be achieved, if I may ask?’

Humming low in his throat, Thorin shifted indicatively, the muscles of his back coiling as it arched, just-so-happening to present the curve of his ass. ‘A number of methods come to mind,’ he purred, a small smirk playing about his lips.

‘Impatient,’ Bilbo sighed mock-disappointedly. His fingers traced a slow pattern back downwards as he shifted where he knelt by Thorin’s side, pressing the side of his curly head against the dwarf’s ribcage. Directing an impish grin at impatient blue eyes, his playful fingers reached the swell below Thorin’s spine, exposed and tightened by his position. Something tugged at a spot in Bilbo’s chest; simmering heat pooling more insistently yet when Thorin muttered impatiently and arched into his touch. This movement caused entrapped wrists to tug at their bonds and Bilbo watched with no small amount of interest as pale eyes darkened, the tugs becoming more insistent as his gaze fastened upon him.

‘Bilbo…’ Thorin warned, yet another strand of his hair slipping free to brush into his eye. ‘Kindly refrain from teasing.’

The hobbit pursed his lips at the ridiculously endearing view before smiling rather suddenly and wriggling backwards, out of Thorin’s line of sight. The dwarf’s trepidation, therefore, was more than a little understandable, especially given the not-so-innocent intent Bilbo suspected may have bled into the quirk of his lips. ‘I would never, dearest,’ he said innocently, setting both hands on the cheeks of Thorin’s ass and digging his thumbs into the plush centres, before moving them in an agonisingly slow circle.

‘Mmf — _Bilbo_ — I am fairly sure that you ju— just contradicted yourself,’ Thorin managed, his rough voice laced with wanting gasps. Bilbo wouldn’t deny being a little impressed by his coherency, given that he was taking great pleasure in kneading the sensitive flesh and, well, his fingers had always been talented.

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Bilbo exclaimed in fake surprise. ‘I assure you, this is nothing more than a completely essential aspect of preparation. Increases blood flow, you see. Sensitivity.’ He gave a light slap to the left cheek to prove his point and Thorin moaned wantonly, burying his head in his arm the next second as his ears turned darker through wayward strands of hair. It was rather like dealing with a shy woodland creature burrowing away after embarrassment.

It was, to put it frankly, _ridiculously adorable._ How could such a commanding, strong, prideful to the point of arrogant dwarf king be so endearing? Really, only hours before Thorin had been swinging that massive sword about, slaying orcs and roaring orders and snarling about elves. It had all been very majestic and intimidating (and, if Bilbo was to be honest, more than a little arousing). Now he was just…just…vulnerable. Unguarded. Delicious? Bilbo truly didn’t understand it, but he wasn’t about to question it either.

‘The system?’ Bilbo prompted. He reached up to brush a tickling strand of hair from Thorin’s brow. The dwarf then tugged lightly at his bonds and scrunched up his nose. Bilbo had the sudden and mysterious urge to kiss it, however hawkish it was.

‘Bilbo, I know how to take care of myself. I am a King, not some beardless dwarfling. Cease your fretting.’

‘Oh, of course, _Your Majesty._ ’ Bilbo rolled his eyes extravagantly. ‘Please excuse me for caring about your health. I see now that it was the most grievous of transgressions. Will an apology do, or shall I gift you my firstborn child as well?’

Thorin let out a choked, inelegant sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh, his voice deepened by amusement when he spoke. ‘Your tongue grows ever sharper, I see.’

‘Well, if it weren’t for your whinging, I _could_ be putting it to better uses,’ Bilbo sniffed. He settled back to his spot behind Thorin and lightly rubbed his lovely ass illustratively, gifted for his troubles by another muffled groan and a ripple of tension running languidly down Thorin’s body. The shiver highlighted the thick musculature of his figure very nicely and Bilbo felt impatience begin to scratch at the back of his mind with tiny heated claws.

‘Ready?’ Bilbo asked, rising to his feet.

Thorin gave an impatient growl and squirmed, jerking again at the slender rope binding his wrists. ‘Yes, yes! Hot! _Ibdikikî_ , Bilbo, as you please.’

‘All of this impatience,’ Bilbo sighed dramatically, shaking his head in weary disapproval. ‘I would almost think that you were in a hurry to get it over with.’ A small thrill of elation and terror in equal measure shot through his chest when he brought his hand firmly against Thorin’s right cheek. The sharp retort was mingled with Thorin’s grunt; Bilbo watched with a dry mouth as the dwarf’s back heaved and his head bowed to rest against the elegantly carven bedpost.

‘Again,’ Thorin rasped, and the sound of it abruptly seared away the last of Bilbo’s doubt.

‘Gladly,’ Bilbo replied. It was the closest he’d ever came to a _growl_ , of all things -- and he didn’t miss Thorin’s small moan, which became a low keen when Bilbo slapped him again. Heat sparkled up Bilbo’s wrist and the temptation to use more strength was compelling, but he kept them fairly light until the fifth, where he gave a hard hit and Thorin choked a hoarse shout, his head dropping in the cage of his suspended arms.

‘Ma— _Mahâl_ , Bilbo,’ he groaned, deep voice turning up to a whine when his dominant reached around and gave his cock a strong pump.

‘Genital stimulation, you know,’ Bilbo breathed into the sweat-slick skin of his neck. ‘All but essential.’ As if daring Thorin to argue, he flicked his thumb over Thorin’s slit. The usually mouthy dwarf’s only reply was a bone-deep shudder and a throaty moan and it sent fiery possessiveness blazing away Bilbo’s reluctance. Thorin was like that because of him. Thorin was at his power. Thorin trusted him, and him alone.

Bilbo gave a stuttered breath against the sweet curls at Thorin’s nape before drawing away.

‘ _Athâkh ahdur azrâd_ ,’ Thorin mumbled, the inky tail of his hair spilling half over one shoulder as he turned his head into the vine-etched bedpost. His ponytail was gradually loosening and slipping down the back of his head, allowing a growing number of curling locks to snap free and frame his face, concealing the already limited vision completely from Bilbo’s eyes. Thorin had become almost relaxed into the footrest, become still, complacent; gone was the impatient wriggling dwarf of mere minutes before, replaced by one flying high on the rush of submission.

It was beautiful.

Bilbo told him so, aided by stuttered breath and a reverent stroke down Thorin’s hip. In return he was gifted a long, sweet sigh and the sight of his dwarf turning completely boneless against the purple velvet, the bronze expanse of his back relaxing into soft lines. That. _That_ was why Bilbo did it.

His eyes dropped to Thorin’s tight ass, which was flushed to an exquisite shade from his spanking.

Oh, yes. That too. Most definitely.

‘How are we doing?’ Bilbo asked somewhat breathlessly. His hands settled on Thorin’s hips mere inches from the reddened skin and ached to _touch;_ the distance felt more like the distance between Mordor and The Shire than the width of half a dove’s egg.

‘May I use _burning_?’

Thorin’s voice was hoarser than usual and unmistakably unsteady, muffled into the bicep at right angles to his face, but the somewhat contrary note was clear and Bilbo huffed a small laugh. ‘If you so desire,’ he replied, patting Thorin’s hip with a grin. And maybe somewhere a little further to the left. Thorin groaned and canted his hips into the light touch, shudders running up his spine at the stimulation against newly sensitive skin.

‘The — the paddle,’ Thorin gasped roughly, back to straining at his bonds. ‘ _Please_ , Bilbo.’

Bilbo paused for a moment to carefully study his dwarf. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said that Thorin needed to be suitably prepared for harder hits — he would’ve liked to spend more time warming up the skin, but already it was redder and apparently more receptive than he usually evoked from hobbit partners. Dwarvish anatomy, he supposed. And Thorin did look lovely as he was, but how he might react to a more solid hit was alluring to imagine…

It was safe to say that the hesitation was exceedingly brief.

‘Alright,’ Bilbo said, searching fingers closing around the slender wooden paddle on the table nearby. It was smooth and cool beneath his touch; he couldn’t help remembering how Thorin had looked when presenting it, all flustered and red-eared, and wondered how he’d got his hands on it — and when. His words followed his thoughts. ‘You would’ve had to prepare for this, wouldn’t you?’ the hobbit mused, trailing a light touch over the flat end of the paddle. ‘I can’t help wondering where you found this. Where you took it from…or who.’ Bilbo snorted inwardly. Knowing Thorin, he’d stolen it from the elves just to be spiteful. ‘When did you find it? This morning? Yesterday? The day we first arrived in Rivendell?’ He brushed the paddle against Thorin’s flushed ass, a teasing stroke which made Thorin flinch and expel his breath in a short, eager gasp. ‘I can’t imagine how that would’ve been, hiding such things in your room for days, imagining what I would do to you when I had you alone.’

Thorin’s back coiled as he shifted his hips minutely. Bilbo gave a hum of approval and smoothed one hand up his side, which was just starting to heave with Thorin’s quickening breaths.

‘Oh, you’re imagining it now, yes? How it’ll feel. As you’ve been doing all day, I expect. You looked so lovely, don't you know, standing at my door all flushed and contrite.’ He leaned forwards slightly. His arousal thrummed at Thorin’s reddened ears and the way he’d ducked his head almost shyly, at his warm, familiar scent. ‘I suppose I know why you’ve been so quiet all day, then,’ Bilbo murmured, his wandering hand sliding between Thorin’s hard body and the footstool to smooth down a flat abdomen. Thorin’s skin was blazingly warm and roughened by his coarse dusting of hair, but became almost velvety as Bilbo’s touch dipped lower. The paddle in his other hand continued teasing at Thorin’s hypersensitive ass. ’You’ve been thinking about me.’

The already tense muscles of Thorin’s stomach contracted as he arched slightly off the bed, urging Bilbo’s hand further and the paddle’s touch to become more tangible. ‘Nn — Bilbo, yes, yes I did — please, _a’rukh khaifuzu!'_

‘Shh, love,’ Bilbo soothed, giving the paddle a light tap against flushed skin. ‘Here you are.’ He hit with a fraction more strength, a muffled _thud_ which shuddered up his spine and made Thorin pant and arch. His face was sure to be a vision — Bilbo could well imagine it, brows pinched, even teeth digging into his thin lower lip, strands of hair curling and sticking to the glistening sweat on his forehead, a blush dusting his cheekbones. Still, reality was sure to be better than any fantasies.

‘Thorin, look at me.’

Thorin’s brilliant blue eyes, the only thing which no sort of imagination could capture, fixed upon his own, tinted dark and hazy with arousal. They were all Bilbo could see of his face; the rest was hidden by his biceps and curling hair, but the sight was striking enough on its own.

‘Perfect,’ Bilbo praised. ‘Do you want more?’

‘By Durin, _yes_ ,’ Thorin burst out, with such exuberance that he quickly buried his head back into his arm and Bilbo was forced to stifle a smug grin. The hand on Thorin’s stomach slid lower until it dragged through soft curls and traced around the base of Thorin’s cock.

‘Mm, very nice,’ Bilbo hummed approvingly. His fingers circled around velvet-smooth skin and drew down firmly, but agonisingly slowly. Thorin gave a pleading whine and bucked into his hold. His cock gave a hot throb beneath Bilbo’s hand which had his own pulsing along with his thundering heartbeat, resonating through his ears and vibrating down to his very bones.

‘Now,’ came Thorin’s gasp through his encompassing arousal. ‘Now — _hit me —_ please, please.’

‘As you wish,’ Bilbo replied breathlessly. He was unable to do anything else but comply, readying his grip on the paddle and swinging it down strongly. Something bright and searing within him revelled at Thorin’s strangled moan, the way his arms went limp and his long fingers clutched desperately at the silken rope. The next time the low _thud_ echoed through the room it was followed by a cry, hoarse and shameless. Thorin was much too far gone to care about restraining himself, or his careful walls, wildly receptive to every single hit and uncaring of each pleasure-filled noise torn from his lovely throat. Bilbo was forced to keep a tight leash on his own control and ensure that the moment was safe as it could be — keeping three counts between each blow, ranging the point of impact, gradually building the intensity with each hit until Thorin was babbling incoherently in his own language. His broken tone and the near-sob of his breaths was a sure sign of his approaching peak. Bilbo also was finding his clothes much too tight, itching and burning as if lined with bee stings. He couldn’t rip his eyes away from Thorin’s heaving form, his whole-body blush and the tie gradually slipping from his hair, the mesmerising shift of his shoulders and the strong wrists wrapped in silken rope. And he didn’t much want to, either. Bilbo had never met anyone like Thorin and he thought that might be because there was simply no one _like_ Thorin. The thought was impossibly sappy and had his Baggins side been more coherent it would’ve sent him scoffing and blushing, but as it was both his sides were very much in agreement as to where they wanted to focus their attention. Namely, the sweating, writhing, bound dwarf king who was stuttering Bilbo’s name between curses in his wild language and deep-throated moans.

Bilbo truly was lucky.

And if he wasn’t making the most of it, he was a Bracegirdle.

‘So lovely, Thorin, so perfect, so wonderful for me,’ Bilbo gasped, unaware of what he was really saying but simply allowing the words to tumble from his tongue, until he busied it by swooping down and licking at the sheen of sweat on Thorin’s shoulderblade, biting at the heated skin and drawing it into his mouth, tasting salt and metal and a hint of vanilla soap. He dazedly noted that his hips were grinding without his control, pressed up against Thorin’s sensitive ass as his fingers dug bruises into his hips, the paddle loose in his right hand. Thorin didn’t seem to be complaining — if anything his moans were louder, tearing deeper from his throat, the shudders rippling through his back stronger, his head snapping back to bare his neck when Bilbo gave a particularly well-aimed roll. Bilbo’s eyes fixated on the smooth column and he knew that his mouth dropped open in desire and burning hunger but he couldn’t reach, couldn’t stretch that far, and for once he cursed his proper hobbit size.

Instead he reached for Thorin’s leather hair-tie and with fumbling fingers managed to pull it off. He accidentally caught on a tangle and tugged sharply. This merely served to draw a shout rough with ecstasy and Bilbo groaned as the tie fell to the floor, forgotten, curling his fist into Thorin’s thick locks and yanking. The dwarf’s head bent even further back and he gave a sudden and enthusiastic push back into Bilbo’s cock.

Bilbo exhaled as though he was punched, forgetting himself and swearing atrociously. ‘Oh — oh, Thorin, _fuck_.’

He couldn’t really bring himself to care.

The clatter of the paddle hitting the floor was lost somewhere in the blazing obliterating whirl of Bilbo’s arousal and all that he knew was Thorin’s warm skin in one hand and his silky hair tangled in the other, the sweet torture of his ass against his clothed cock, the breath hitching in his own ears and the heat burning its way up his chest. Bilbo’s hips snapped forwards and Thorin gave an absolutely ruined cry, sending Bilbo abruptly slamming back to himself. For a moment he was merely still, shocked at the sudden wash of cold and slow return of his senses and the near-painful throb of his cock. When he finally wrenched himself back, barely remembering to release Thorin’s hair, most of his mind was screaming its outrage at him and Thorin’s body was so damn tempting — but no. That sound had been almost pained and he had to check.

Thorin gave a cracked sound of protest, fingers flexing desperately as a shudder rippled down his back.

No, no, no. He absolutely _had to check_.

Bilbo gave a quick slap to his own cheek against the predatory haze encompassing his mind. As the mist cleared he could see Thorin’s strong thighs trembling, reddened from the few lighter hits from the paddle, and the sight muffled most of the blaze.

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo managed hoarsely, taken aback by the pain in his throat — had he cried out? ‘Temperature.’

The rhythm of Thorin’s rasping almost-whines stuttered but did not change. Bilbo blinked stinging, heavy eyes at where the dwarf’s silver-touched head was hidden by the cage of his forearms, the sight of a large crimson ear inexplicably calming him a little. Still — if Thorin had fallen into that odd heady space which Bilbo’s past lovers had described, it was both complicating and oddly fast. Bilbo cursed himself, fisting his hand frustratedly in the curls at his temple. He continued forgetting that Thorin was actually a different species, which considering the lack of hair on his feet and the _abundance_ of hair everywhere else was actually a little worrying.

‘Thorin, temperature,’ Bilbo prodded more insistently, aided by an actual prod to scar-laced ribs. Thorin mumbled inarticulately into his bicep. Well, it _was_ a sound, but it certainly wasn’t an answer. Huffing in equal measure at Thorin and himself, Bilbo thanked the Valar that he’d put plans in place for such a situation. He could only hope that Thorin would be articulate enough to follow through.

‘Remember what we discussed?’ Bilbo changed his tone to coaxing, kneading gently at the base of Thorin’s spine. ‘Count for me, dearest. Count back from seven. One for each dwarf clan. Seven, Thorin. Come now, count for me.’

‘Mmm,’ Thorin slurred, nuzzling into the crook of his elbow. Even at that moment Bilbo felt a splash of warm fondness and a smile pulled at his lips.

‘Seven, love,’ he hummed. ‘For me.’

Thorin sighed almost long-sufferingly and Bilbo laughed, stroking across the dimples on his lower back with both thumbs. The dwarf seemed to react to the touch as he tilted his head ever-so-slightly and replied, however inarticulately. ‘Nnsev’n.’

‘Good, Thorin,’ Bilbo smiled. He ducked to retrieve the paddle, wondering absently when it had fallen. With only slightly less force than his last, hardest hit, Bilbo brought the paddle to Thorin’s left cheek with a bone-shuddering thud. Thorin keened happily and arched his back.

‘Six,’ he gasped without prompt. His rich voice was already clearer and Bilbo gave a gentle tug to his cock in reward. Thorin was still clawing for breath when the paddle came down, again slightly softer, and his moan came out whiny and wanting. For some reason it hit Bilbo then that this was _Thorin_ , Thorin Oakenshield, stern, commanding, dominant Thorin Oakenshield.

‘Mm’five,’ came an almost sleepily content voice and Bilbo marvelled at the change which he had wrought. He would remember this next time Thorin drew himself up icily and glared down at him with regal disdain. This would likely make Bilbo either smirk or blush violently but it would definitely be worth it.

The thud rang out again and Thorin rasped out ‘ _four_.’

Still, Bilbo couldn’t help wondering if he would be allowed a repeat. Undoubtedly over the course of the journey Thorin would continue to seek his company, having proven himself surprisingly wanton – and of course there was the stress and pressure of heading an actually _world-changing_ journey to deal with. But afterwards? When Thorin was king?

‘Three.’

Of course Bilbo would return to Hobbiton. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to give up the bright colours of the fields in summer and the fresh coolness in winter. And the Shire was all he had ever known; he wasn’t sure that he’d even know how to live anywhere else. And to be completely honest, he didn’t want to.

‘Nn…two.’

Thorin would likely be unable to visit, being too busy…kinging around, or whatever business those of supposed importance got up to. The idea that he would give up his crown, his mountain, his _home_ was positively laughable. Oh, Bilbo wasn’t about to go on a depressing tangent about himself being _only a hobbit_ or some such nonsense – it would be an insult to his entire kind, hobbits were perfectly respectable thank-you-very-much – but pure logic dictated that King Thorin II Oakenshield would not travel halfway across Middle Earth for a fling.

‘One.’

Admittedly, it had been an exceedingly _nice_ fling. Bilbo, being an honest hobbit, would have to admit to himself that after being spoilt by having a dwarf royal at his feet he’d be unsatisfied by others of his race and perhaps even a little…lonely. But not too much so, because Thorin was only a fling. Just like the numerous others Bilbo had tumbled with in his youth.

Somehow, though, Bilbo had the creeping feeling that he wouldn’t be forgetting Thorin’s name any time soon.

Not when it felt so sweet on his tongue.

‘ _Augh_ , z-zero.’

Bilbo gave a final tug to Thorin’s cock, adding a wicked twist of his wrist at the head. Thorin bucked beneath him, visibly shaking as he groaned his pleasure to the roof, thick white come blazing stripes against Bilbo’s fist. An aching, searing throb of arousal washed over the hobbit from toe to fingertip; but his cock was still untouched and his desire didn’t peak, leaving him trembling as the heat ebbed and sweat stung his brow, clothes all too restrictive.

He couldn’t help wondering whether any of his future encounters would leave him feeling simultaneously so powerful yet shakily vulnerable.

Bilbo caught his thoughts wandering back down that tangled path and shook himself impatiently. He set down the paddle on the nearby table and turned immediately back to Thorin, an odd restlessness itching beneath his skin soothed when his eyes fell back to his dwarf. Thorin was spread indolently over the purple stool, small, pale feet relaxed on the hardwood, back slowly rising with each gradually calming breath, head leaning sideways onto his suspended bicep. His loose hair had slid aside to reveal that delicious neck and the barest line of his face, neat beard and the smudge of closed eyelashes. His wrists were the only part of him not slumped bonelessly and that was likely only due to the elven rope.

Hmm, yes. Very handy. Bilbo would certainly make sure to remember that.

For future references…perhaps.

Bilbo ignored the sting which pricked his heart at the thought, brushing it away like a hovering bumblebee as he went to check on Thorin.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KHUZDUL
> 
> Athâkh ahdur azrâd: your hands are magic
> 
> A’rukh khaifuzu: I need your touch
> 
> :::
> 
> So I'm back at school *cries quietly into piles of homework*
> 
> Therefore, updates will be a little shaky for a while. However! Part two of this chapter is already almost finished (yay) and I was thinking of doing a small interlude exploring Thorin's POV for the chapter after that. As always, please tell me what you think, I will always take your advice and ideas in mind and I love hearing from you all :))


	4. III: Rivendell (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftercare (and sex lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> birthday present from me to me ayyy 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this early post (is it early? idk. let's say it's early)
> 
> khuzdul/sindarin hover translations as ever :)

‘How are we feeling, love? Any pain, tingling, numbness? Especially in your wrists?’ Bilbo asked softly, smoothing his hand up Thorin’s back as he came to stand by the dwarf’s coiled shoulder.

‘No.’ Thorin watched him with half-lidded eyes, his voice dropping to a vulnerable softness as he admitted, ‘I feel amazing.’

Bilbo smiled despite himself. He ducked his head as he patted Thorin’s shoulder. ‘I know you do. Now, I’m going to untie you — just let me guide you, all right? Don’t make any sudden moves, lean on me if you feel weak. You’ve done so, so well, Thorin.’ He spared a moment to brush Thorin’s cheek with one thumb. ‘I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer, then you can sleep.’

‘But what about you?’ Thorin hazed, watching blearily as Bilbo gave a single tug and the knots unravelled (elven rope, so very, very handy) and guided his lax hands down to rest on the floor knuckle-first, kneading gently at his wrists, then his shoulders.

‘Hush, darling, I’ll be fine.’ Bilbo didn’t miss the slight flinch which Thorin’s body gave at the touches to his sore joints but he didn’t think that the dwarf consciously registered it, his eyes actually slipping closed in contentment. Bilbo pulled a number of quite interesting faces when he struggled to haul the half-asleep male to the bed, one warm arm slung around his shoulder. It was, still, one of his better experiences. One hobbit lass had actually rolled too close to the grate once, and by the time Bilbo noticed the fire had spread to her skirt. In his defence, he’d been in his own odd headspace at that time, being still relatively inexperienced. And it wasn’t like there was anyone to look after _him…_ not that he was entirely sure he would’ve allowed them to.

Finally, Thorin was sprawled out on the bed, tucked beneath a thick duvet with his hair spread like a dark halo across the white pillow. He looked soft, open, and surprisingly…angelic. Bilbo shook himself for the second time that night and mentally cursed his heated cheeks.

‘You stay right there, love,’ Bilbo said, touching the dwarf’s ridiculously delicate ankle. ‘I’ll be right back.’

Thorin gave him a sleepy blink and Bilbo took this as permission to slip off, returning within seconds with a tray and a blanket which had been hanging by the fireside, not wanting to leave the muddled dwarf alone for any length of time. First he manoeuvred Thorin until he was on his stomach with his arms at his side, massaging his strained shoulders out carefully before draping them in the warm blanket and sitting him up against the headboard.

‘Here,’ Bilbo said with a small curved smile, offering Thorin a small square of an impossibly delicious treat which the elves named _laug-melui,_ or chocolate. ‘This will help, and it tastes wonderful, I promise.’

Instead of simply taking the treat as expected Thorin instead ducked forwards and delicately sunk sharp white teeth into the square, leaning back with a coy look and a distinct air of satisfaction.

‘Oh, you — you insufferable dwarf,’ Bilbo spluttered, folding his arms and scowling against the betraying warmth creeping up his neck. It certainly wasn’t helped by Thorin’s tongue darting out to lick the last of the chocolate off his lip. ‘I was trying to _help_.’

‘I know.’ Thorin gave him a breathtakingly sweet smile. Bilbo was still frozen when Thorin once more ducked forwards, this time to steal a quick chaste kiss instead of chocolate. Bilbo couldn’t much say that he was complaining, and would like to add for future reference that he would much prefer the thievery of the latter. Just in case Thorin couldn’t choose between the two.

‘Well,’ Bilbo huffed as the other drew away, ears very much now scarlet (though he was slightly mollified by Thorin’s own faint flush). ‘Alright then.’

Thorin raised an eyebrow, amused. ‘Alright?’

‘Shut up and drink your tea,’ Bilbo snapped, shoving the mug at him and folding his arms tightly as soon as they were free. Thorin merely chuckled into his mug as he obliged, the sound sending a tiny delighted shiver down Bilbo’s neck, which seemed to sprout an odd creature in his chest area because there was something soft brushing against the inside of his ribcage. He noticed Thorin listing slightly when his tea was set aside and, huffing at all the ridiculousness, wound his arm around Thorin’s waist and pulled him to rest on his shoulder.

‘Hmm. I could become used to this,’ Thorin hummed approvingly, voice still somewhat hoarse from abuse. Bilbo’s chest throbbed at the memory, as where as somewhere somewhat lower. He hadn’t been satisfied, after all, but that could easily be taken care of later. Images of the past minutes were already scattered mutedly about his mind like stirred embers, joining those from earlier. Not to mention the _sounds_ ringing in his ears – oh, Yavanna, the sounds.

But right now, Bilbo reminded himself firmly, he had to take of _Thorin_.

‘Did you enjoy that?’ Bilbo asked softly, rubbing his hand up Thorin’s bare shoulder. For some reason the warmth of Thorin’s skin, felt so many times before, sent that odd winged creature in his chest spiralling and flapping about delightedly.

The silk of Thorin’s hair tickled Bilbo’s jaw as Thorin nuzzled into the crook of his neck. ’More than anything,’ he said earnestly, looking up at him with brilliant blue doe eyes. Bilbo snorted and tried to ignore the fact that the irritating winged creature had doubled in size.

‘Please, Thorin, exaggeration is not needed or appreciated.’

Thorin huffed a laugh into the skin of his neck, sending shivery tingles across the prickling surface.

‘That’s my unapologetically rude burglar,’ he said fondly. ‘Never change, _mazaddagûn._ ’

Bilbo merely rolled his eyes, absolutely sure that the Khudzûl was something contrary and no doubt vaguely insulting. He was admittedly a little offended, but fondly so, and his hand did not stop its soothing movements. Thorin relaxed easily into his hold. Bilbo wondered if he would be able to get a purr tonight, and stifled a sappy smile into the crown of Thorin’s head. ‘You were amazing, you know,’ he said softly, rubbing circles into Thorin’s shoulder with his thumb, the material of the blanket soft beneath his touch. ‘Not everyone does so well.’

‘Well?’ Thorin repeated, his tone losing its sleepy contentment, edging on sharp. ‘I did nothing but slip into some…daze. You did all of the work.’

Bilbo didn’t let Thorin’s tone get to him. This was merely the aftereffects of Thorin’s submissive high; he’d comforted similar cases before, whether a temporary lover or a friend who wasn’t able to be comforted by their own dominant. ‘That daze, as you call it, is an extremely common occurrence,’ he told Thorin, dark hair soft against his lips. ‘Almost everyone slips into it during such an intense experience. You did extremely well to come out of it so quickly.’ Bilbo dipped his head so that his cheek pressed against the side of Thorin’s furrowed forehead and he could meet slightly unsure pale eyes, reassuring his dwarf silently. ‘And don’t you even worry about being useless, or some such nonsense.’ He allowed a brief smirk to cross his face. ‘I had you exactly where I wanted you, and let me tell you, it was exceptionally satisfying.’

‘But you were not…you did not…peak.’

‘I didn’t need to.’

Thorin frowned up at him, going a little cross-eyed from the effort. Bilbo was torn between laughing at the ridiculousness and crying because his traitorous mind still thought that it looked adorable. 

‘Why not?’

Bilbo brushed a kiss to the line between Thorin’s dark brows and smiled against the skin, reminding himself that Thorin was not in his right mind so a little sappiness was perfectly alright. ‘Because, you stubborn fool, all that I need is your pleasure,’ he replied. Thorin – instead of snorting a laugh as he might have in his usual mind – merely hummed dubiously. But Bilbo could feel the tension seep from his shoulders. He pulled the dwarf closer until Thorin’s ridiculous ear was against his heart, pressing into the simple cotton of his shirt. ‘Stop worrying,’ Bilbo told him. ‘Especially when there’s nothing at all to worry about.’

Thorin gave a hum deep in his throat and turned willingly into Bilbo's chest like the cuddly sap he was. His arm wound like a creeper around Bilbo’s side as he rubbed his cheek against the cotton, his beard rasping. Bilbo giggled a bit and squirmed, Thorin huffing an amused breath into his shirt at the reaction. Soon enough he was petting Thorin’s hair, carding his hand gently through the tangled locks as Thorin relaxed even further into him, breaths evening. Bilbo rubbed his fingers against Thorin's scalp – and there it was — a purr rumbled from Thorin's chest and he pressed into the touch.

‘Oh, you're so beautiful,’ Bilbo said blissfully, allowing his head to fall back against the headboard as his fingers massaged deeper into Thorin's silver-shot mane. Thorin’s purr became lighter, more of a pleased hum, and he turned his head to press a bristly kiss to the triangle of Bilbo’s chest exposed by the open collar of his shirt. Bilbo sighed in pleasure, tingles racing down his spine, and encouraged Thorin to continue by pressing his free hand to the dwarf’s cheek. Thorin obliged happily, pressing a soft trail up the column of Bilbo’s exposed throat. It was soft, sweet, sleepy, devoid of tension. Bilbo felt comfortably warm down to his very bones as he scratched absently at Thorin’s jaw, through the neat beard and to the strong line beneath. He felt Thorin's pleased noise reverberate through the hollow beneath his jaw and the dwarf nuzzled into the soft spot under Bilbo’s chin.

‘Mm…Thorin,’ Bilbo murmured, Thorin’s hair sliding silky beneath one hand. At the pleased note in his voice Thorin opened his mouth around a soft breath, thin lips brushing against Bilbo’s skin and once more changing the tone, sending a fiery rush of possessiveness sweeping through Bilbo’s chest. He smoothed a hand down Thorin’s naked back and clutched at his hip, drawing him closer. ‘ _My_ Thorin.’

His protesting (and horrified) Baggins side was promptly squashed into submission when Thorin gave a full-body shudder and rasped ‘ _Always_.’

Bilbo slid his hand from Thorin's hair to cup his face and gentled the other’s hold until it merely rested against the soft skin of Thorin’s waist. ‘Kiss me, love,’ he murmured, and Thorin didn't waste a second to protest. It began languid and content, small kisses traded between light breaths, but soon enough Thorin's tongue was pressing eagerly against Bilbo’s own and his breaths had that slight edge of a whine which Bilbo was beginning to find dangerously irresistible.

‘No, no, no,’ he muttered, struggling back from that odd predatory haze even as Thorin did his best to swallow the words. ‘You need to eat your chocolate.’

Bilbo felt Thorin finally draw away, and slitted his eyes open somewhat warily to find eyes looking up at him alight with mischief.

‘Then feed it to me,’ Thorin purred, licking slowly at his lip illustratively. Bilbo sniffed at him but reached for one of the treats anyway, placing it very carefully on his tongue and feeling a smug thrill when the mischief in Thorin's eyes muted and became darkened hungrily.

‘Someone’s eager for their meal,’ Bilbo couldn't help teasing, words a little slurred by the chocolate melting in his mouth. Thorin's warmth enveloped him as the dwarf leaned forwards, one large hand coming to rest by Bilbo’s hip.

‘Exceedingly,’ Thorin breathed, and dropped in for a searing kiss which had Bilbo forgetting his own name.

No, no, that’s right, it was Bilbo. Bilbo...Boggins?

Dammit.

Then Thorin gave a particularly industrious swirl around the treat (Bilbo wasn't really sure which the treat was anymore) and Bilbo promptly forgot that he had forgotten his own name in the first place.

Thorin’s would merely have to suffice.

Bilbo wound his hands in Thorin’s soft mane and took control of the kiss, licking into the wet heat of Thorin’s mouth and flicking his tongue against the roof. The dwarf’s moan rumbled through the hairsbreadth of space between their chests and Bilbo shivered, shifting over Thorin’s body to wrap one leg around his hip and straddle him, kissing the dwarf until his lips stung and his lungs screamed for air and his cheeks were stinging from the bristle of Thorin’s beard, and every inch of him felt simultaneously weak and burning. He only noticed that Thorin’s name was tumbling from his mouth over and over when the dwarf answered with a rasping, emphatic _‘Bilbo_.’

The sound shot straight to the long-withheld arousal building steadily within him, like coals coaxed to flame, and he hooked one leg around Thorin’s waist and flipped them over with a twist of his torso. Thorin caught himself with a grunt, hands slamming down either side of the hobbit’s waist; Bilbo gave him no time to adjust, hooking his fingertips around the back of his jaw and dragging him up for another crushing kiss. He easily captured Thorin’s groan, wriggling back to prop himself against the headboard without breaking contact. The new angle allowed him to dip deeply into Thorin’s mouth and the dwarf pressed himself closer and arched up into his touch, strong body a line of heat down Bilbo’s right side. Without warning Thorin gave a languid roll of his hips to press the most blazing part of him against Bilbo’s thigh.

‘Y-Yavanna, again?’ he stuttered disbelievingly. Thorin chuckled into his lips and Bilbo’s hips bucked up involuntarily at the deep sound, the soft material of his pants doing little to stem the heat of golden skin.

‘Dwarves are not known to lose passion for things which interest them,’ Thorin said, into the charged gap between their lips, his eyes magnetic. ‘And you, Bilbo, have certainly peaked my interest.’

Bilbo’s exasperated groan at the dwarf’s cheesiness soon became a more amorous sort as Thorin slid rough hands up beneath his shirt, rucking the simple garment up around his suspenders.

‘Let me give you pleasure,’ Thorin murmured in a voice of midnight, lowering his lashes and looking to the side in a deceptively coy move. His tangled hair slid over his shoulder and brushed against Bilbo’s exposed collarbone as his touch reached a fluttering ribcage. ‘Take me.’

Blue eyes darted to meet with his own and combined with the power of his words to effectively destroy the last of Bilbo’s already-shaky hesitance, draining away worries and fears and concerns in the face of mindless heat. He surged up to grip the nape of Thorin’s neck in a possessive grip, sealing his lips to the spot just behind the sharp angle of his jaw and drawing the stubbled skin between his teeth, keeping it there as Thorin choked on a groan and wound a strong arm around his back. Bilbo only let it go when the skin had blossomed purple beneath coarse hair. He didn’t go far, exhaling a hot breath into Thorin’s ear and digging his nails into the dwarf’s neck.

‘With pleasure, my ridiculous dwarf,’ he said, before pushing Thorin over and pinning him to the sheets. Bilbo took a moment to enjoy the view – Thorin Oakenshield, sprawled and debauched by and for him – before running his hands to play with pebbled nipples. Drinking in the sight, sound, feel, scent, Bilbo lost himself to the prickling waves of heat scraping beneath his skin and burning white-hot in his belly. With clever fingers he pinched and rolled, driving Thorin’s throaty sounds to almost the point of sobbing. It would appear that his nipples were still sensitive from the clamps in Bree; for not the first, or indeed last, time, Bilbo found himself marvelling at Dwarvish powers of resilience.

‘Fetch the oil,’ he commanded, over the sound of a stuttered protest as he withdrew his hands. More firmly the hobbit said, ‘If you want to be fucked, dearest, fetch the oil.’ Thorin whined in protest and Bilbo gave a light admonishing slap to the dwarf’s nipple. The hit sent that heady obedience sheening over his eyes once more. As the dwarf immediately rolled away to fetch the lubricant Bilbo pressed his palms to his eyes and cursed himself; sending Thorin back to his submissive headspace was the absolute _last_ thing which he wanted to do. Submissives each had different ways of coming down from their highs; Bilbo had never personally dealt with one who enjoyed sex as a method of relaxation, but it certainly wasn’t unheard of – and the method which worked was soft, slow and loving.

Bilbo had never really done soft, slow, or loving, but for Thorin he would try.

Starting with positions. Speaking of…

‘No,’ Bilbo said firmly, the hand free of the little bottle which Thorin had handed him staying the dwarf’s shoulder as he made to roll to his stomach. Pale eyes shot him a confused look and he elaborated, leaning in with a completely serious expression. ‘I want to _see_ you.’

After a pause, Thorin gave an almost shy smile and Bilbo returned it, knowing that he’d done the right thing. Still, when Thorin lay back among the sheets the hobbit barely stopped himself from pouncing on him immediately. _Soft, slow, loving,_ he reminded himself, and sighed inwardly. This was going to be difficult.

Bilbo was perhaps exaggeratedly slow when he leaned down to kiss Thorin, one hand bracing his weight, careful to avoid the inky halo of hair. Whenever Thorin pressed up needily, no matter how much he wanted to shove him down and _take_ , Bilbo pulled back slightly and waited until the other’s fervour receded. Eventually he didn’t need to pull away any more; Thorin had become quiet and relaxed, his lips moving softly against Bilbo’s own, the only sound in the room Bilbo’s contented hums and Thorin’s soft breaths. The hobbit had never really kissed in such a way, preferring those heated or dominant, and found an odd sort of pleasure in it. His free hand had risen to lightly rest on Thorin’s cheek, not possessive, nor directing, simply…laying there. He wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the matter so merely decided not to think on it at all.

When the raging heartbeat of his arousal had merely cooled to a steady, fluttering thrum, Bilbo drew away. The fingers on Thorin’s skin moved to run beneath his eye; he stared into steady blue and steeled himself.

‘You can.’ Bilbo cleared his throat and looked away, the hand bunched in silken sheets fisting reflexively. ‘You can, eh, unclothe me.’ He glanced twitchily back to Thorin to see his eyes fractionally, almost unnoticeably, widen, felt an echo of the undeniable heat of his hand against his shoulderblade, above which it hovered, uncertain.

‘I have your permission?’ Thorin asked lowly, seriously, his ribs completely still between Bilbo’s thighs. Somehow the thought that the daft dwarf wasn’t even _breathing_ sent tiny strands of happiness weaving through Bilbo’s chest, warm and fond as sunlight. His mouth tugged up to a smile and he rested his forehead against Thorin’s. He wasn’t really sure which contexts in which the gesture could be used in Dwarvish culture but the tension bled from the stiff body beneath him, Thorin’s ribcage (thankfully) moving once more.

‘Yes, yes you do.’

Bilbo expected his little shard of peace to fracture as soon as Thorin touched him, as it had during his…well, his first time; but instead the reverent care Thorin’s fingers possessed as they unclipped his suspenders and untucked the rest of his shirt merely sent delighted sparks drifting through his body. Bilbo tilted his head to nose into Thorin’s hairline as his shirt was steadily unbuttoned. The wild, untamed scents of a pine forest and metalwear were a spark to Bilbo’s senses as Thorin pushed off his shirt entirely. The calluses of Thorin’s palm dragged against his bared skin, long since browned from hours of sunbasking, a low hum of appreciation twisting through their shared space. Whether from himself or Thorin Bilbo did not know, but merely basked in the long-unfelt touch of hands against his skin. He hadn’t realised how touch starved he was until the moment when Thorin kicked away his pants impatiently before running his hands up Bilbo’s thighs and every bone in his body seemed to melt. Bilbo’s every iron line of support fell away until he was moulded to Thorin’s body from their entwined legs to their bare chests. Bilbo shuddered at the delicious friction of thickly furred skin against his own and propped his elbows either side of Thorin’s head, sliding his hands into dark locks and initiating a kiss which lead to him rolling his hips down rhythmically into the cradle of Thorin’s pelvis. Uncharacteristically Thorin voiced no protest at his excruciatingly slow pace, simply muffling soft sounds of pleasure into the hobbit’s mouth and mapping Bilbo’s moving back with his hands.

The slow, contented air was oddly tempting, but it could not last forever and eventually the throb of Bilbo’s neglected cock became near-painful and he worked free a hand to reach down and curl clever fingers around both his own and Thorin’s. At the first stroke white noise blanked his ears, mental capacity near falling away as his blood rushed to his cock, the straining skin turning hypersensitive as it rubbed against the velvet of Thorin’s own erection. Every muscle in his body seemed to race with heat and come alive, tensing until the pain became lost beneath waves of pleasure.

The movement also caused the cool metal of the oil container to press into Bilbo’s palm and the pain forced him back from that blinding white precipice. Barely biting back a whine at the loss – and Thorin didn’t even try – Bilbo released his grip and instead sat up to fumble with the container, a breeze from the window soothing against his heated skin. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight of his dwarf flushed and loose-limbed against the rumpled sheets. Thorin’s flush had spread throughout his entire body, dark beneath his thick hair, and his forearm was thrown across his eyes.

‘Spread – spread your thighs,’ Bilbo managed. The bottle’s wax-sealed cap finally popped off and he scrambled to kneel between Thorin’s muscular legs, lukewarm liquid spilling against his fingers in his haste. He couldn’t really resist giving a single tug to Thorin’s cock, simply to see his back arch and his thighs clench around him. The incoherent sound of pleasure which escaped bitten lips made Bilbo clumsy in his haste, forgetting the stray drops of oil which landed on pristine covers as he covered his fingers and rubbed them together for heat. The sounds were wet and obscene and Thorin moaned, the heels of his feet messing the sheets even further as they dragged up the bed, slow and languid as the sound which the dwarf sent to the ceiling.

‘Ready?’ Bilbo murmured softly, smoothing his hands up Thorin’s thighs. This whole _caring_ debacle was actually going quite nicely. Also quite nice was the little shiver which Thorin gave, and the rich rasp of his voice when he spoke.

‘Mahâl’s grace, _mahakhufe zû_ ,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ Bilbo had an inkling that it would’ve been something close to a shout had he not been so relaxed. Still, it had been a confirmation, and the hobbit merely circled Thorin’s rim in warning before pressing his index finger into taut heat. Thorin’s body gave easily but the clench of muscle around Bilbo’s finger had him groaning, voice mingling with Thorin’s as he added a second and third. Slower preparation was unnecessary – as Bilbo well knew, Thorin was no stranger to experiencing such things, perhaps even performing them on himself...

The image of Thorin, slipped off from the Company to pleasure himself alone, surrounded by the night-darkened forest with moonlight playing across his skin and pleasure furrowing his brows as he worked himself open was certainly more than enough to drive Bilbo wild.

‘Let me fuck you,’ he begged, covering the sound of his fingers slipping from Thorin’s body. Uncharacteristically enough neither Bilbo nor his dwarf noticed the loss, merely watched each other heatedly as Bilbo’s fists whitened in the sheets and Thorin panted softly from where he was propped on his elbows. He didn’t answer straight away – but Bilbo caught his sharp gaze begin to unfocus worryingly and placed a staying hand on his abdomen. It caught his attention as it was meant to. ‘Or,’ Bilbo amended lowly, rectifying his mistake, ‘Or I could…make, ah, love to you, if you would prefer.’

Bilbo could barely contain a wince but Thorin seemed to appreciate the words. His pale eyes creased warmly, his head falling to the side a little, dark curls shifting with the movement. ‘I would like that, yes,’ he replied.

And suddenly Bilbo really didn’t mind so much.

‘As the King commands,’ he said with a cheeky grin, leaning down and tilting his chin up to brush his lips to Thorin’s. Thorin grumbled a little at the meagre kiss but Bilbo soon silenced him by settling onto his ankles and preparing himself with the faintly citrus-smelling oil. He may or may not have made a little show of it, just to see Thorin’s mouth part and his eyes darken where they focused on the movement of Bilbo’s hand over his own cock. 

‘Hips up,’ Bilbo murmured. Thorin arched obediently off the bed and Bilbo _most certainly did not_ stare at the sight presented. He slid a pillow beneath plush skin blossoming a fetching red. Wetting his lips in a quick dart, he shimmied once more into the comfortable space between Thorin’s bent knees. The dwarf was slightly curled in on himself, dark head and strong shoulders propped against the delicate headboard at almost the same height as his hips, his features serene but his pale eyes holding something keenly intense. It was quite the exquisite sight; Bilbo felt oddly weightless as he positioned himself, the supporting hand pressed into Thorin’s stomach seeming to burn with searing heat, feeling every twitch of sculpted muscle with an odd precision. He allowed his eyes to trace up the thick whorls of hair trailing the solid wall of Thorin’s chest, and even higher, his lungs tightening abruptly when his gaze met Thorin’s. Bilbo did not break the contact even as he pushed in slowly, fighting the flutter of his eyelids at the soft clenching heat yielding against his cock, staring hazily into midnight blue irises as his mouth fell open in desperate pants for air and his fingers dug into scarred skin. When he bottomed out Thorin’s head fell back with a soft thud. The dwarf’s groan was muted, somehow just as intimate as his ruined cries, and seemed to sear a burning path down Bilbo’s spine in much the same way. He began with slow, shallow rolls of his hips, not even having to make an effort to be loving any longer. No other path could possibly be taken when Thorin was responding so, with quiet moans and stuttered breaths and his dark eyes half-lidded where they stared to the ceiling.

Bilbo leaned down, the complaint of his spine lost in the desire to be even closer, closer to his dwarf. To drown in his warmth and the sweaty slide of his skin and his warrior’s scent and the flavor of him beneath Bilbo’s lips. He pressed his forehead to a heaving chest, eyes sliding closed as he reveled in the feeling of _Thorin_ , Thorin’s body below him, Thorin’s thighs behind him, Thorin all around him and everywhere, his heat like the most secure embrace. Bilbo’s slow thrusts deepened until they encountered resistance, sparking like the flint to the tinder of the steadily building pressure deep within him, and his world spiraled dizzyingly upon its axis.

‘Ah, ah, Bilbo, _hugur tîr,’_ Thorin gasped, his body convulsing. Through his thundering heartbeat the hobbit dazedly noticed the warmth of Thorin’s legs moving before crossed heels dug into the small of his back, drawing Bilbo even further into that perfect velvet clench and he couldn’t hold back the cry which slipped from his lips.

‘Oh – my – Thorin yes, yes, oh Yavanna _yes_.’ Bilbo descended into incomprehensible babbling, his words twisting around his head like tangled threads until he wasn’t sure whether they were spoken or not. Stars shot through his vision and he pressed his forehead further into Thorin’s chest as he drove into him with an irresistible rhythm, pants and keens and nearly incoherent words drawn from his dwarf in equal measure, the sound of his deep voice vibrating between them.

‘Bilbo, Bilbo, _amrâl –_ _amrâlime_.’

‘Tell me more,’ Bilbo gasped, his pace beginning to speed, urged by the press of Thorin’s heels and his stuttered words and the throbbing heat in his cock. ‘Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want.’

His request was met with an emphatic groan and the bite of blunt nails into his shoulderblade. The sharp pain sent shuddery jolts through Bilbo’s body, a feeling which would’ve deterred him in his natural state merely building his arousal. ‘ _Igbêr_ ,’ Thorin rasped. ‘ _Arsur ‘ubdê,_ _mamallûn._ Ah – _khulthel!’_ The dwarf curled even further into himself and Bilbo drew back to see that familiar expression of pinched, silent, intense pleasure. Sweat glistened across Thorin's furrowed brow in a way as ridiculously attractive as ever, snaring curled strands of his hair to stick to wrinkled temples. Bilbo followed the path of a single bead as it traced down his temple and jaw and down his throat; he belatedly realised that Thorin’s neck was in range and swept downwards to lick the droplet away. Thorin gasped as if hit and his every last muscle clenched. Sparks bursting and skittering down Bilbo’s spine, trails of heat burned into his skin and set every nerve in his body alight until he could feel every inch of the dwarf beneath him. Bilbo keened into Thorin’s neck and dug his fingers into the sheets, maintaining his steady pace merely by instinct as his mind disintegrated until it was just Thorin, Thorin, Thorin. Possessiveness overtook him and he bit into Thorin’s shoulder, marking weatherbeaten skin.

Thorin howled.

For the briefest moment Bilbo felt weightless, floating, like a dandelion clock caught on the breeze.

‘ _Makhidiz_!’

The hoarse shout brought Bilbo back to himself just in time to feel a brief diamond-sharp rush of clarity. Of skin and muscle and heat and scent. Then he tipped over the edge and lost himself to blinding light, a ringing in his ears and a single deafening beat of his heart. Dimly he felt himself spill into Thorin and Thorin’s own release paint burning stripes in the space between their bodies. The almost painful heat finally began to ebb from Bilbo’s body, the frantic throb of his blood slowing as the encompassing mist slowly dissipated from his mind. He realised that he was panting desperately through his nose, seeing as his teeth were busy being buried into Thorin’s neck.

‘Oh…bother,’ Bilbo muttered to himself when he drew away, wincing as he pulled out. There were two rather unmistakeable rows indented deep into the joint of Thorin’s shoulder and neck, flaring an angry red, bright against browned skin. With weak arms he braced himself in the sheets, hovering over Thorin anxiously but unable to tear his eyes from the new bruises forming. A small huff of a laugh snapped his attention to Thorin’s face and he was met with a small smile edging dangerously close to a smirk, potent despite the dwarf’s dishevelled appearance. Thorin tilted his head up at him questioningly.

‘Come now, Bilbo,’ he said in a voice low with amusement and rough with use. ‘Surely one mark will not matter among many more?’

His pale eyes gave a sudden smoulder which suddenly made his words so much more meaningful.

But Bilbo would not be dissuaded. He was one to fret, through and through; ignoring the warm thread which travelled down his spine at Thorin’s words, he instead pressed his fingers to a spot near the teeth marks and balked at the manner in which they were already turning purple...and if some distinctly Tookish part of him was very happy and satisfied with the sight it was pushed down _far_ , thank you very much. It was the Bagginses’ turn.

‘But, but I wasn’t supposed to…I certainly didn't intend to...’ Bilbo cut off his increasingly hysterical tone to wave at the marks. ‘Oh, I’m awful at this. Awful. Absolutely useless.’

Thorin released a sigh, clearly exasperated, and Bilbo was torn for a moment between anger and giving in. His Took side was struggling to surface once more, exasperated with the levels of self-pitying idiocy in the room, not to mention that even the Baggins in him was weakened by the presence of the very naked dwarf beneath him. Who was also currently moving, warm skin sliding against Bilbo's own- no, no, none of that now. _Honestly_.

‘You are not useless, Bilbo.’ Thorin framed his head with his hands, forcing Bilbo to meet his eyes. It was a study in juxtaposition; Thorin’s rough calluses against his smooth cheeks, his wide palms (quite aptly) dwarfing the hobbit's face, long fingers reaching from the corner of his jaw to his hairline. Bilbo only barely resisted the urge to melt into the touch like gold in the forge-fires.

‘But I was met to be _gentle_ ,’ Bilbo wailed, trying and failing to tug from Thorin’s immovably strong grip. He was undoubtedly acting like a fauntling...and absolutely unashamed of the fact. ‘I ruined everything.’ This seemed to be the breaking point for his dwarf who, without a word of warning, used his very handy grip to pull Bilbo down for a lingering kiss.

‘ _Uglai_ ,’ Thorin muttered when he pulled away. Bilbo huffed in unfortunately fond aggravation, tugging with the hand which had somehow sneaked into Thorin's hair.

‘I don’t even _want_ to know what that means,’ he told the dwarf long-sufferingly.

Then he leaned back down, and it shall suffice to say that Thorin was not truly given much time to reply.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SINDARIN
> 
> laug-melui: warm sweetness
> 
> KHUZDUL
> 
> mazaddagûn: he who continues to argue 
> 
> mahakhufe zû: touch me
> 
> hugur tîr: right there
> 
> amrâl: love
> 
> amrâlime: my love
> 
> igbêr: melting
> 
> arsur ‘ubdê: my body burns
> 
> mamallûn: he who continues to pleasure
> 
> khulthel: heaven of all heavens
> 
> makhidiz: melting gold
> 
> uglai: too talkative
> 
> :::
> 
> comments are literally my life force i absorb them daily so please leave some feedback kind sir :)
> 
> (if this is super lame im sorry im tired ill come back and edit tomorrow, yeah?)


	5. Interlude: Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's POV.
> 
> tw: brief mentions of past dub-con, abuse of khuzdul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got really serious ahahaha fuck
> 
> sorry there's no smut guys :') 
> 
> y'all are smart you know the drill with khuzdul now

The only outward sign which Thorin gave of the searing pain washing through his body was a slight clench in his jaw and his fingers whitening where they dug into the heavy cloth at his knee. Instead of loosening his awkward position and relieving a measure of his discomfort, Thorin only narrowed his eyes and pushed his elbow further out from his body, stubbornly continuing to clean out the blood-matted wounds scoring across his side. Pale pink liquid like watered wine ran down his skin, mingling with the sweat prickling uncomfortably beneath the oppressive heat of the summer eve. His thick hair clung to his neck in itching curls. The rough bark of the tree he leaned against scraped against his back whenever he shifted position, the fallen log he sat on less comfortable than the stone benches of Erebor’s courtrooms – quite a comparison indeed. All in all, any other rational being with the smallest lick of sense would long since have found ways to alleviate such unpleasantness; but Thorin Oakenshield’s obstinacy had been engraved into the stone of his being so deeply and long ago that it could not be sanded away.

Whenever Thorin neared the brink of his endurance, the memory of his father’s heavy agate gaze left a hollow feeling in his stomach and he crushed the perceived weakness to charcoal dust. He had already lost to Azog on this day, he would not lose to his own slovenly desires.

A particularly blistering lance of pain punched through Thorin’s torso. Hissing through gritted teeth, the dwarven King glared down at the deep furrow following the curve of a rib and swiped away its fresh gift of oozing blood; he was completely heedless to the skin’s sensitivity and dismissed the feverish heat creeping down to his bones. That Mahâl-forsaken Warg had managed to puncture his stout armour, and while Gandalf had healed what Thorin suspected to be a cracked rib the surface marks of its attack remained. The Healer Óin had approached him mere minutes after he had stumbled away from the rest of the Company to collapse down against the tree, only to be firmly yet gratefully rebuffed. He had, however, thrust cloths, ointment, and a needle and thread into Thorin’s hands before wandering off. Thorin had spared a moment to be amused by his not-so-subtle grumblings about dwarven royalty and the density of their skulls.

His brief flicker of levity had vanished upon peeling off his undershirt and viewing the extent of his injuries. He could only recall having been hurt such once, when he had become lost in the forest as a dwarfling and attacked by a mother bear. The two events did have an odd symmetry; Thorin could remember being tossed about by the creature as though he was inconsequential as _mantzimli_. Familiar feelings of responsibility and guilt had flooded him, his obligation to the thirteen incomparably brave beings clinging to a burning tree mere fullsteps away, who did not deserve to die because of an exiled King’s incompetence. Thorin’s chest felt crushed beyond the extent of his injuries, a weight which had receded in recent months returning with vicious force.

Snapping the length of thread in half between his teeth, Thorin found his mind wandering, as it was often wont to do, to the lucky member of their Company. When he threaded the needle he felt the brush of wild curls beneath his hand; tied off the end of the thread, the ghost of silken rope around his wrist; tugged the needle through his flesh, a different and infinitely more pleasurable kind of pain shudder dimly down his spine. Thorin completed the stitching with a near-silent grunt of pain, frowning at the errant tail of the string poking from his skin as he struggled to knot it with wide and clumsy fingers. Curse his own ineptitude! Thorin could well remember the nimble dance of Bilbo’s fingers about much fiddlier tasks, and could not help wishing for their touch – and not entirely for healing purposes, either, though at present he was not at a liability to consider such things.

Thorin stuck his tongue between his teeth when the cursed thread slipped from his grip for the dozenth time, curling slightly into himself in order for a better view, the tangled tail of his hair slipping over his shoulder as he dedicated his complete attention to the stubborn _jazarmajalâjzur_. So he dismissed the slight shadow which fell over him from his mind, putting it to a cloud passing the falling sun, and thus startled when a soft touch somehow managing to convey both gentleness and exasperation moved his own aside.

‘Let me,’ Bilbo said softly.

Thorin's head snapped up as if jerked by a wire. He ignored the complaint of his neck, watching his lover with a rare unguarded surprise as he easily tied the knot, brown eyes intent on his task. The tingling brush of Bilbo’s fingers against his skin electrified Thorin’s mind, after a dull moment of staring, and brought him back to himself. His confusion cleared slightly as he dipped his head. ‘My thanks, Bilbo.’

The words, spoken to any other, would undoubtedly have needled Thorin; but he had bared all before Bilbo and the hobbit had accepted it without hesitation or stumble, and Thorin saw no point in holding back his gratitude. Especially not after Bilbo had saved his life mere hours before. Now Thorin even had no reason to check for watching eyes, seeing as the rest of the Company had finally gained the respect for Bilbo which Thorin had long possessed, no longer following the hobbit's movements with wary suspicion.

‘Oh, think nothing of it,’ Bilbo replied in a predictably dismissive manner. ‘It must have been terribly difficult for you, your hands being rather slippery – what with all that blood.’ He then pinned Thorin with a familiar sharp gaze, who had to fight not to give in to the thrill shimmering through his veins. Such looks, from experience, usually heralded _good_ things. Thorin’s reaction was all but reflexive. But this time Bilbo’s anger was serious and on a conscious level Thorin felt solemn as Bilbo stared down at him unreadably. Waiting for Bilbo to react however he would, trusting in the hobbit’s judgement, Thorin realised that the iron bonds around his chest had begun to loosen; so when Bilbo took his chin in a firm grip to angle up his head Thorin merely blinked up at him and felt the iron bands turn back to mere cloth bandages at the show of submission.

Bilbo’s tight expression loosened slightly. It fell to a look more tired and defeated, infinitely worse than the irritation of before. ‘Thorin,’ he said, very softly but intently, ‘please, please, _never_ do such a thing again.’

Thorin’s throat tightened and his next words came out more hoarsely than he might’ve liked. ‘But I must, Bilbo.’

His tone was almost plaintive; a dark part of him was repulsed by it, begging a hobbit to understand him – but another, larger part almost revelled in it, because this was Bilbo and Bilbo _deserved_ his submission. Thorin knew why he felt so strongly on the matter, had realised nearly the first day that he had met him. There was not much point in defying his heart, after all, not when it would bring him more pain than good. Thorin never had been one for denial.

Bilbo’s grip tightened infinitesimally around his jaw, bringing Thorin back to the present and the defeated brown eyes of the hobbit who had earned his love. The warm hand against his skin moved, joined by its pair to cradle his face as Bilbo spoke again.

‘I know you do, Thorin. Yavanna, I know. But frankly that doesn’t mean you have to be such an _idiot_ about it.’ A brief look of horror crossed Bilbo’s face at his own words – his Baggins side returning, from what Thorin had gathered – but then his expression firmed once more, not extinguishing the little flame of fondness burning strong in Thorin’s chest. ‘That was absolutely _suicidal_. Honestly, you are simply lucky to be alive. And now you’re refusing assistance to be a stubborn ass all by yourself.’ Bilbo’s gaze flickered to the neatly stitched wound and he pressed a palm to Thorin’s abdomen, mere inches from the torn edge. Thorin shuddered not at the pain but the feeling of his love’s hand upon his skin, though for Bilbo it was likely no more than a simple touch. But Thorin had long since accepted such things and his content would not waver. He would take all that was given to him, and accept no more, as there was merely heartbreak down that path. Bilbo made him feel wanted as he never had before. Thorin was – _desired_ , there was no other name for what he saw in Bilbo’s eyes – and it made him for the first time grateful for his plain appearance. Whenever he was around Bilbo he felt so headily and simply content _._ Thorin wanted to bare all before him, from the scars on his body to the insecurities veining through his mind.

Tentatively Thorin brought his own rough hands to cover Bilbo’s smaller ones, his thumbs slipping to press against Bilbo’s wrists. The surge of his blood was hot and quick, betraying his anger – and perhaps...concern. Thorin couldn’t help the curve of his lips at the evidence of his love’s care, and silently marvelled at how Bilbo’s pulse slowed in response.

‘My actions were a little rash,’ Thorin began lowly. He chose to ignore Bilbo’s bitter laugh and mutter of _‘a little_.’ ‘As King and friend, I must always place the lives of my Company before my own. But I promise you, Bilbo, that I will always do as best I can to defend mine as well. I do not wish to give the b- responsibility of leadership to any else. No matter what you believe, I do not actively seek death.’

Bilbo’s shoulders sloped as he bent slightly into himself, his discerning expression replaced by a crushed exhaustion that Thorin immediately despised. ‘It certainly looked like it from where I was standing,’ he sighed quietly. But a moment later he gave a small echo of Thorin’s smile, his eyes wrinkling beautifully, a small dimple curving at his cheek as his fingers swept in warm trails across Thorin’s cheekbones. He looked tired still – but the awful resignation had faded from his eyes, the tense pull of his shoulders loosened.

Thorin ran his thumbs back and forth over the strong bones of Bilbo’s wrist in a reverent caress. Touching Bilbo was still something a little...new, for him; he had always restrained himself, looked but not touched, been his for Bilbo's to command and nothing more. Until Bilbo had given him permission to unclothe him. The utmost privilege, feeling bare skin - bared by his own hand - and heaving ribs beneath his touch. It had only seemed more of a submission to him and brought only more pleasure.

Bilbo's fingers were warm where they framed Thorin’s ears, gritty with dirt but gentle all the same. It somehow made Thorin feel safe, safe as he had when the black sheen of unconsciousness had been raised above him, a white ghost before him framed against crimson flame, and a small hobbit had stood staunchly in defence.

Safe as the walls of Erebor.

‘Thank you,’ Bilbo said suddenly. Thorin frowned, perplexed, and he elaborated. ‘For…promising, I suppose. And surviving. Though on second thoughts that was more down to Gandalf…’

Thorin gave a small laugh and squeezed Bilbo’s wrist gently to show that he understood. He well knew how Bilbo could ramble on when seeking clarification, found amusement and fondness in it even, and his lips merely tilted upwards at the hobbit’s sheepish look.

‘Do not concern yourself so, Bilbo.’ Thorin wondered if Bilbo could hear the soft and utterly uncharacteristic fondness in his voice. ‘What has passed, has passed; I am fine. Through no valour of my own.’ He gave Bilbo a meaningful look and the hobbit flushed and stammered, eyes flitting away, and Thorin had to tighten his grip slightly to prevent him from withdrawing his hands. ‘It is I who should thank you. Without your bravery, I would be well on my way to Mandos’s Halls, leaving one of my sister-sons in charge of our Company.’

A wrinkle dug between Bilbo’s brows at the thought. ‘Oh, Yavanna forbid.’

‘Indeed,’ Thorin chuckled. He sobered swiftly, not forgetting how Bilbo had dismissed his thanks, a trait which seemed familiar to the hobbit; while he was extremely confident and dominant at times – times which Thorin could attest to with the _utmost_ surety – when confronted with compliments he often became politely dismissive and closed off. Thorin was determined in his task to convince his love of his worth. ‘But with all honesty, Bilbo, I do not know how on Arda I can begin to repay you for what you did. Azog was not your enemy to fight, and my life was not yours to save, yet fight and save you did.’

Bilbo’s eyes darted back to his. After a moment of flustered blinking his gaze became calculating and he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing at it as though he was considering his next words carefully. Gently he tugged his hands from Thorin’s, one travelling to curl around his hip and the other at his nape. Gooseflesh erupted beneath his touch. Tingling shudders radiated down Thorin’s spine in a sweet shimmer, and while he wished instinctively to twist away he could only press closer. The gesture was, unmistakably, possessive; Thorin swayed slightly into Bilbo’s warmth as his lover ducked forwards and pressed his mouth to Thorin’s hair. Thorin couldn’t help the speed of his breaths or the frantic thrum of his heartbeat when Bilbo’s lips brushed against the curve of his swiftly heating ear.

‘Of course your life is mine to save,’ he whispered, his words turning to pleasant chills which webbed across Thorin’s skin. ‘A hobbit must always protect that which he owns. You are _mine_ , Thorin Oakenshield, and I would thank you not to forget it.’ Bilbo’s tone was seemingly matter-of-fact but Thorin could recognise the sensuous tone running beneath and a stuttered gasp escaped from his throat before he could stop it, his eyes falling half-closed. Bilbo’s hand tightened in his hair, showing his desire – and Thorin preened with the satisfaction of a servant who serves a beloved master well, knowing that his reaction brought Bilbo pleasure.

‘Wicked creature,’ Bilbo murmured into his ear. Thorin felt the sharp, cold nip of teeth and choked off a groan, barely feeling Bilbo’s smile against his hair through the sparkling of diamonds raining down his spine.

‘ _Yother_ ,’ he pleaded. Bilbo’s first touches were ever addictive, like the barest sip of the sweetest mead; Thorin always desired more, thirsting for that heady submission. A tantalising jolt shot to the liquid gold simmering in his chest when Bilbo gave his braid a playful tug and pressed a lingering kiss to the angle of his jaw. He hummed low in his throat, pleased, the primal part of his mind wishing strongly for Bilbo to mark him, claim Thorin as his own, even though he would regret it later when Nori undoubtedly would smirk at the sight. But his suspicions about what, precisely, Nori knew swiftly slipped his mind when Bilbo’s lips brushed down his neck, edged with the promising drag of teeth. Thorin tried to set his jaw against the sounds clamouring to escape but Bilbo bit at his tendon and his mouth dropped open, working desperately around stuttered pants.

‘Just like that, love,’ Bilbo murmured into the hollow of his throat. The hand at Thorin’s neck twisted, tangling itself deeply into his hair as the other slid up his naked back in a slow drag. It reached his shoulderblade and stopped suddenly, and a moment later Thorin arched at the dig of nails into his skin – only to whine mindlessly in protest when Bilbo drew away. Thorin struggled to bring his eyes to Bilbo’s, knowing instinctively that he had to; yet his own body was fighting him, ensnared in burning threads of pleasure. Eventually his unfocused gaze found Bilbo's. He barely heard Bilbo’s stunned inhale, too focused on the dilated darkness of his pupils, the flush staining his neck and the panting breaths sending his shoulders and chest heaving. It was physical evidence of Bilbo’s desire – for _him_ – and he felt something like _kofihi_ twist behind his ribcage, tiny and wistful. Bilbo must have seen something of it in his eyes for he abruptly pressed back in, claiming his lips with a desperate inhale. He tasted earthy and bloody and real, and tangy sweat overlaid his familiar scent of cinnamon.

When Bilbo pulled back he did not go far. Instead he pressed his forehead to Thorin’s in the most intimate of all gestures, his soft curls brushing against his skin. Though Bilbo could not know that, Thorin felt torchlight twist through his chest, heat like forge-flames burning where Bilbo’s hitching breaths brushed against his lips.

‘I’m simply so very glad that you’re alright,’ his love said in a bare cracked whisper. His hands were shaking with tremors like the deep quakes of the shifting earth, when the mineshafts shuddered and dust trickled from the eaves. Bilbo leaned upwards for a briefly suspended moment before slipping quietly away, leaving the soft ghost of his hands on Thorin’s cheeks and his lips upon Thorin’s forehead. 

Thorin touched the burning spot dazedly. The light of a fire shone merrily through the trees, followed by cheery greetings as Bilbo evidently reached the rest of the Company. He had barely registered the fact that night had begun to fall while he and his love spoke, the forest about him turned grey and dark, the sky streaking with dusky amethyst. He sat there until the purple faded to obsidian, dotted with flecks of pure silver. The ache of his wound was a bare gnaw on the edge of his consciousness, lost to an odd halfway-between state of mind. He was not particularly angry, nor happy, not agitated or relaxed, he was simply…drifting.

Still, Thorin was not too far gone to notice the telltale rustlings and cracks of an approaching figure, and Dwalin was paying even less heed to stealth than usual.

‘ _Lanz galikh, nadzagr_ ,’ Thorin said to the beech tree waving rustling branches before him. He was unsurprised by the mere grunt of affirmation which he received in answer to his greeting, but the expression which Dwalin wore left discomfort needling at his skin – simply because it was completely unreadable. The son of Fundin had been by his side since the day Thorin was born, over a century and a half, and Thorin had always known his mind. Not so at that moment.

The thing about Dwalin was, it was inconsequential if one could not tell his mind from his features – it would soon be known anyway. The youngest son of Fundin was not known to mince his words.

‘I’m worried,’ Dwalin said abruptly.

Still, Thorin merely raised his brows, rubbing absently at his itching wounds. ‘About?’

‘You,’ Dwalin replied as he came to stand before Thorin – much as Bilbo had, though only a blind Elf could mistake the two. ‘And the Halfling.’

‘Hobbit,’ Thorin corrected instinctively.

Thorin’s sword-brother snorted and folded his arms; his dark eyes glinted threateningly down at his King, but Thorin could see his worry betrayed by the lines etched around them. ‘S’what I’m saying, Thorin. Yer too involved. I haven’t seen you like this before…not in Erebor, not with—’ He growled and looked to the side, a sure sign that he was contemplating the best curse to use. ‘That scum-crawling spineless _a’lâju Mahal_.’

‘I do not need reminding of him,’ Thorin stated tersely, frost beginning to seep into his tone. ‘I was a naïve fool and I know it well.’

Dwalin ignored his tone. They had known each other long enough for the elder to merely cut through Thorin’s easily incited defences; his jaw merely clenched and he widened his stance.

‘D’ye remember what my father used to teach us?’

With a sigh, Thorin dropped his head against the rough tree-trunk but began to recite nevertheless, his mother tongue coming to him effortlessly as the words ground into his being. ‘ _A foolish dwarf may be known by six facts: anger without cause, speech without profit, change without progress, inquiry without object, putting trust in a stranger, and mistaking foes for friends_.’ He tilted his chin down slightly to look warningly at his oldest friend. ‘Do you name me a fool? Bilbo is no stranger.’

‘Aye,’ Dwalin grunted, ‘but I do not trust him either. He is a _Halfling_ , Thorin. You are King. Don’t forget that.’

Thorin ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching upon his simple braids, and exhaled tiredly.

‘I am no King, not yet. I am a King without a Kingdom – and such matters do not concern me. This, my and Bilbo’s…’ he gestured absently, ‘association, is a mere temporary fixture. It will make no effect on the future.’

Dwalin allowed his marked silence to show his disbelief. Thorin huffed something between a sigh and a tired laugh, head falling inexorably back once more; exhaustion had a firm grip on his bones, their foundations already shaken by the constant tremors of pain running through them. Thoughts of the future, of Bilbo’s unavoidable leaving, did not lighten his mood. There was a sour tint in his mouth - such as he had not tasted since the ash and acrid smoke of Erebor’s fall, since the destruction of his first home.

‘I see that you have words to speak, _nadzagr_ , so loosen your tongue and voice them.’

‘If I may speak my mind.’

Thorin waved a permissive hand. ‘ _Dûm takt._ ’

‘It took me a while ter realise what was goin’ on. I knew from the start that _somethin_ ’ was off – ye were cruel to the Halfling from the start, as though ye were hidin’ something big. I thought that it was just attraction at first – but then Nori saw the two of ye in tha’ Bree _girgîn_. I don’ know what’s happened since then but I suspect it wasn’t the first or las’ time. And…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Ye spoke the exact same words when you first began seein’ that _abrâfu shaikmashâz_.’

Shaking from his surprise at the long speech – Dwalin rarely, if _ever_ , had spoken with such length unprompted – Thorin bridled at the implication, his suddenly sharpened gaze snapping to his sword-brother’s steady one. ‘Bilbo is _nothing_ like that…that…’ He choked on his words and glared away into the night-darkened forest, jaw jumping, throat working, frustrated by his lasting weakness to a dwarf who he had last seen over half a century before. ‘He is different. I trust him, Mahâl help me. Even _mithril_ is found among stone; it is of no consequence that he is a Hobbit, and I a Dwarf. Not in my mind.’

For a long while, the only sound between the two of them were those of the forest; the whispering murmur of the trees, insidious and unwelcome; the far-off mournful hoot of a barn owl; and the faint laughter and chatter of their companions from their fire. Silence was common between them. There was no moment without communication between Thorin and Dwalin, whether verbal or not. Dwalin never expected Thorin to be more or less than himself, and in return Thorin did not treat him with the patronising airs of most dwarven Lords who expected him to be hardly intelligent enough to string a sentence together.

When they came, Dwalin's words were almost expected.

‘You love him.’

It was not a question, and Thorin did not treat it as such.

‘ _Ins Mahâl taglibi luknu_ ,’ Thorin said in a rough exhale. ‘I do not know when it happened, or how. But it is too late now for doubts. I will take what is given to me in the time I have, and no more; that much sense remains in me at least.’

The moonlight glinted on his bald pate as Dwalin shook his head slowly, his next words underpinned by a bout of rowdy laughter from the rest of the Company. ‘Sense.’ His craggy face wrinkled in disgust and almost – disappointment. ‘There is no need of _sense_ , Thorin. Ye’ve found yer One and while there is _mithril_ in the mines of Khazad-Dûm I will not allow you ter lose him for _sense_. Yer grandfather has long joined Mahâl’s guard. Let his lessons go with him.’

Thorin closed his eyes and allowed a shaky sigh to escape his control. His chest felt tight, cramped, his breaths too shallow. Steel casings were forged across his lungs. What had he done to deserve such words? Such forgiveness?

Let alone his own.

‘I cannot,’ Thorin replied, allowing a hint of weariness to curl around the word. ‘His words…they are as ingrained within me as the runes on _Durinul'aban._ ’

In reply, Dwalin heaved a sigh dangerously near defeated. He scrubbed at his neck, the inked markings on his broad arm dancing. ‘Aye, I know. But by Durin's beard, ye shouldn’t have to be so damned dutiful all of the time. Ye’ve done enough, Thorin. We all know it.’

Suddenly drained of vitality, Thorin dragged a hand down his face, the hairs of his short beard prickling against the callused skin. He paused with his fingers splayed over closed eyes. The laugh which he gave was low and dark, a small, bitter, hollow thing, which made something cold pull taut in his chest. ‘I know it. Yet my mind does not, and continues to torment me.’ Thorin snorted at himself and allowed his arm to slip back to his side, a dull ache flaring by his ribs. ‘It becomes an extremely tired routine after a near century and a half.’

Dwalin’s low, angry snarl rumbled like summer thunder through the still clearing. ‘Tha’ bastard…I should’ve liked to cut his straggly beard to the root.’ He slammed his fist against his thigh in a frustrated, jerky movement. ‘And he bragged about it. Bragged!’

‘Dwalin,’ Thorin interjected mildly. ‘I remember.’

Remember he did.

The memories were old, hazy, smudged and indistinct like a swiped thumbprint across age-old charcoal, but he kept them.

That time had been long since reduced to mere impressions of emotions, dark shadows cast upon crumbling walls – confusion, fault, a shameful terror. It had not been freeing, as he had promised. If anything Thorin’s guilt and burden had weighed upon him more heavily. That first night, in an opulent inn’s finest room, it had been rushed, painful, uncomfortable, and over before Thorin had a chance to become used to the feeling. He had slunk back to his family’s halls like a banished hound, a sick surge of shame rising to his throat when Dís had greeted him cheerfully. Dirty, stained. Submissive. It had been wrong, all wrong, and he had never again attempted such a thing. At least until an unassuming brown-haired hobbit had backed him into a wall - but the circumstances had been so immeasurably different, then.

Thorin would have all but supressed the incident completely. But the rumours, the disbelieving murmurs he had overheard a mere fortnight later, had pressed a cold fear straight back to his mind. A whisper travelled about the Dale Markets that a crimson-bearded drunkard in the tavern boasted of taking one of Erebor’s princes. Dwalin had ruthlessly silenced them before they could become anything more. His grandfather’s people had swiftly forgotten, believing it the mere ramblings of a hallucinating dwarf too fond of ale – but Thorin had not. _Could_ not.

In the time which he ran over his memories, Dwalin had managed to regain control of his expression. Thorin chose to forget the first emotion which had flickered across his face.

‘I know ye do,’ Dwalin said, in a voice of weatherbeaten stone, crumbling to dust. The unforgiving line of his mouth tightened behind the fall of his beard and he lowered his head. ‘But I wish you didn’t have to.’

Unable to watch the show of Dwalin’s shame, Thorin looked instead to the side, his eyes finding a tiny white flower glowing pale through the night. It was small as a fleck of moonstone, nestled among the dark jade of a grass thicket; he watched it shine serenely until its delicate lines blurred from his vision and his eyes began to sting. Too many emotions coiled through his chest, too many thoughts, burdens, memories, twined through with inky blacks and glinting reds and the scent of acrid smoke. But the flower was small, and insignificant, and after a moment Thorin felt the wild song still. He licked his lips, startled by their cracked dryness.

‘Perhaps…’ Thorin began, the word falling into the peaceful night before he could catch it. The hammer had already fallen and he was now bound to end its strike. ‘Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps, if I have not done everything, I have done…enough.’

When he looked once more to Dwalin, he felt content and overwhelming affection for his oldest friend settle in his chest. This must have presented on his face for Dwalin straightened as if pure iron flowed down his spine; the paper-thin lines etched into his skin lightened into relief and he appeared decades younger, bringing memories of breathless, rowdy laughter and the cool glitter of forbidden caves. Slowly, like black sand from an hourglass, the tension trickled from Thorin’s shoulders, some long-sealed trapdoor falling open and flooding his body with serenity. He felt light – lighter than he had for decades.

It was…exquisite.

‘ _Akhminruki astû_ ,’ Thorin said, speaking the words chiseled into his heart.

_Thank you._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you so, for taking me from that place._

Rising to his feet with no little effort, Thorin clapped his hand firmly to Dwalin’s plate-clad shoulder. For a moment he merely allowed his eyes to show his gratitude. Then he drew his brother in and slammed their foreheads together in the greatest show of fraternal affection reserved for their people, pulling away with a huffed laugh mirrored by the joyful creasing of Dwalin’s eyes. He shook the elder slightly by his hold.

‘You are becoming wise indeed in your advancing age, _nadzagr_ ,’ Thorin said with a tilted smile. Guffawing, Dwalin mirrored the younger’s clasp and rattled him roughly back, careless of his injuries – just as he always had, just as Thorin had always preferred.

‘What ye don’t see with yer eyes, don’t invent with yer mouth,’ Dwalin replied mock-gruffly. ‘Or I’ll start namin’ you the well-deserved title of _mazarlûn_.’ Thorin barked a laugh, amused by the moniker. It reminded him of nothing more than the period of two years in their youth where Dwalin had refused to call him anything other than _burgarug_ , thoroughly horrifying his father and sending Thrain roaring with laughter.

‘You would not dare, my friend.’

‘Oh, wouldn’t I now? I find myself quite tempted.’ The older dwarf waggled his thick brows; Thorin merely snorted and knocked his shoulder against Dwalin’s, hard enough to send him stumbling.

‘Aye, and perhaps you would at last grow the _fasl_ to approach Nori and I could return the favour.’

In lieu of answer, Dwalin stretched his neck from one side to the other until his spine cracked, but Thorin did not miss the tiny embarrassed wrinkle at the corner of his mouth, which would be imperceptible to nearly any other but easily betrayed the warrior’s discomfort to his King. Thorin smirked and folded his arms, tilting his head in a mildly teasing manner. ‘ _Saglibmî zasaglibmî zailumêzu, kuf yom atkât?_ ’

Dwalin squinted his eyes to unimpressed slits. ‘Yer attempts at humour are pathetic as ever. How long must I put up with this torment?’

‘ _'Ashur nurtu kuylê 'la murudmi_ ,’ Thorin replied in a sing-song tone that he would never use before the Company, an unrepentant grin curving his mouth as Dwalin groaned in defeat and shook his head.

‘And they call you King! I call ye _nudnadun_ and can only hope that ye someday grow a brain to replace the dense granite sittin' there now.’

Thorin merely snickered and rubbed at the fresh scar wealing his side, mildly irritated by its constant uneasy prickle. The movement did not go unmissed by Dwalin. He gave his King a long-suffering look and lifted his chin meaningfully in the direction of the firelight glittering through the trees. Thorin rolled his eyes to the dark sky. Dwalin gave a rumbling growl and jerked his head again, his brows lowering darkly. With a deep sigh speaking of years of exasperation, Thorin snatched his torn shirt and strode off, but not without jostling his brother’s shoulder on the way.

He had reached the edge of the clearing when Dwalin’s call gave him pause.

‘Don’ think I’m not happy for yer, Thorin,’ he said seriously. ‘I know what it was – still is, aye – like for yer, and what you have with the burglar, it’s well deserved. ‘Specially after what happened. Hold on to it.’

Thorin’s smile was soft but his tone mocking as he called back, ‘Hold on to Nori.’

With that he strode off into the trees, chuckling to himself as he pulled on his shirt, amused at the way Dwalin’s shouted Khuzdûl threats echoed through the hushed forest. He had not missed the way Nori went first to Dwalin with his information…nor the certain brand of tension in the air when they had been younger and Dwalin had put the thief into the Blue Mountains’ jail time and time again. In fact, Thorin had long suspected that Nori had simply allowed himself to be caught in the later years, if only to watch how uncomfortably flustered Dwalin became when flirted with by such an attractive dwarf. Before the incident in Thorin’s eighty-seventh year, the two had seemed on the cusp of finally acknowledging their mutual desires. Had Dwalin not been so distracted minding Thorin and hounding the _akrâduhlatu bintarg_ their current state of business would likely be much changed.

However, as Thorin had said to Bilbo, what had happened, happened, and the two were still mired in some sort of halfway orbit. And Thorin was left with a shadowed memory which still crept into the unguarded halls of his mind deep beneath the cover of night, which could be banished so effortlessly by a mere brush of golden warmth. Thorin knew well that a hairline fracture could destroy a boulder if struck in the right place. He knew that whatever went up must inevitably come down. He knew that the sun must always fall below the horizon. He knew that bright times were always followed by dark.

But so falls snow after fire, and even dragons must come to their ends, and perhaps, perhaps, Thorin could find a way to keep that warmth as some semblance of his own. He wondered this as he stood at the edge of the forest’s shadow, watching his Company jostle and chatter and laugh in the firelight.

And Bilbo’s dark eyes caught upon him, and stayed there, his smile brightening – and Thorin thought, _maybe_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KHUZDUL
> 
> mantzimli: tin dust
> 
> jazarmajalâjzur: knot-which-would-not-form
> 
> yother: more
> 
> kofihi: tiny fragment of coffee/bitterness
> 
> lanz galikh: good evening
> 
> nadzagr: sword-brother
> 
> a’lâju Mahal: shame of Mahal
> 
> dûm takt: the halls are silent; I'm listening
> 
> girgîn: place of ale; tavern
> 
> abrâfu shaikmashâz: descendant of rats
> 
> ins Mahâl taglibi luknu: as Mahâl would speak; it is so
> 
> Durinul'aban: Durin's stone (it's by the Mirrormere okay)
> 
> akhminruki astû: thank you wholeheartedly 
> 
> mazarlûn: he who has been claimed
> 
> burgarug: tiny vermin/pest/brat
> 
> fasl: ~~dick~~ *ahem* male genitalia
> 
> saglibmî zasaglibmî zailumêzu, kuf yom atkât?: you said you were going to speak your mind, why is there silence? (oohhh get rekt dwalin)
> 
> 'ashur nurtu kuylê 'la murudmi: every day of my life until I die
> 
> nudnadun: tiny child
> 
> akrâduhlatu bintarg: beardless taker-of-trust
> 
> :::
> 
> reviews would be good eh *3*


	6. IV: Beorn's House (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my chapter summaries are 10/10 ik
> 
> Sorry for the repeated lack of smut (and the multiplying chapter count, dear lord) I just wanted a moment with these two outside of BDSM or Thorin-Nearly-Just-Died-Again.
> 
> Seeing as I have no beta, there are bound to be mistakes, so feel free to point them out to me :)

Bilbo lay with one hand pillowing his head, indolently lacing through curls which were finally – _blessedly_ – clean, the other tracing idle patterns into the sun-warmed fabric of his shirt. His eyes had fallen to a half-shut beneath the blazing light of day, contentment smoothing the lines traced into his brow as his heels dug blissfully into the tickling grass. The distant drone of bees joined the rustle of trees and the twitter of birdsong in a background hymn to the dreamy dance of the clouds across the perfect blue sky; all in all, the entire world seemed to be caught in a lazy golden haze and Bilbo was quite happy to be a part of it. Forget the band of Orcs and Wargs and their nasty cutting blades, the gardens of the Skin-Changer Beorn were perfectly safe and Bilbo was determined to enjoy them.

Equally determined was he to _not think_ of one Thorin Oakenshield, and most especially the certain… _things_ which surfaced within him whenever dazzling blue eyes met his own.

Bilbo sniffed and glared up at the sky. While it wasn’t, per say, the _sky’s_ fault that it happened to be the exact clear cerulean shade of certain pale irises, he was still irked and required something to glare at. The hand at his stomach moved to rub at his chest, where that pesky winged creature seemed to have taken up permanent residence – much to his dismay. His ears had also developed the irritating tendency to heat whenever Thorin so much as _glanced_ his way, and likewise his knees seemed insistent upon becoming decidedly weak whenever the usually-grumpy king deigned to unleash one of his absolutely underhanded smiles.

Bilbo was not happy about these developments. Not happy at all. Because it almost felt like…like…

Shooting to a sit, Bilbo’s hands fisted in the grass by his side.

‘ _Absolutely_ not,’ he told a passing butterfly heatedly. ‘Ridiculous.’

Bilbo continued to glower at the innocent insect until he realised that he was being immeasurably childish and flopped back to the grass with a sigh, scrubbing an exasperated hand over his face. Really, he was a Took-Baggins, not some starry-eyed Gawkrodger from Frogmorton. He should not be daydreaming, or mooning, or pining, and _definitely_ not over a King. Bilbo was middle aged. Respectable. Down-to-earth. And he most certainly did not ogle injured dwarves while they were being treated for their wounds...mostly.

Bilbo was interrupted from his thoughts by the awkward clear of a throat, and tipped his chin back to see the very dwarf which he’d recently been (not-so-celibately) considering standing framed against the clear sky.

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo greeted. His face creased into a smile before he could begin to reign it in. He simply felt so, so…warm, fuzzy, _delighted_ really, at the sight of Thorin, that damnable thing in his chest waking up and flitting about in a tickling glee. Still, Thorin held himself awkwardly, almost self-consciously. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture a little to straight to be comfortable; he had yet to divest all of his cumbersome armour and furs, and the awful grazes spattered across his nose and forehead only served to make him appear even more battered and exhausted.

‘I hope that I am not intruding?’ Thorin asked slowly, dipping his head without taking his eyes from Bilbo. Bilbo huffed.

‘No, no, of course not.'  _Of all the ridiculous notions_. 

A quick smile – absolutely nothing compared to his real, heart-stopping grin – tugged at Thorin’s thin lips and he shuffled a little closer. His hands unlinked and came to rest instead by his sides. ‘Thank you.’

Bilbo merely extracted his pillowing hand to wave away the dwarf’s thanks; he felt lazy and a little sluggish beneath the drenching sunlight, the soothing hum of bees like nectar to his bones. ‘Come and lie down,’ he invited, his dismissive gesture becoming a beckon. Thorin hesitated. The small braids framing his face swung as he aborted his sitting movement, leaving himself in an awkward sort of semi-crouch.

‘Am I…welcome?’

Frowning up at Thorin Bilbo pieced together his hesitance, his words from before, the careful distance Thorin still kept between them, and huffed. Really, what was he expecting, for Bilbo to shout at him and send him away? Bilbo would be having absolutely none of that, no sir, not if he deserved the name Baggins. In a move learned from fighting dirty for the majority of his tweenage years Bilbo hooked his foot around Thorin’s ankle and swept it away, sending Thorin slamming down onto his backside with an _oof_ and an adorably surprised look.

‘Of course you are welcome,’ he said firmly, lying back once more and folding his hands over his stomach once more. ‘Oblivious dwarf.’ He then tilted his head to smile fondly at Thorin, for once allowing his weakness to bleed out, his walls to be passed over in favour of reassuring his dwarf. Because Thorin, after what he’d been through (and really Bilbo suspected more than he’d heard) did not deserve to feel out of place anywhere. Not where Bilbo could help it.

Thorin made a noise that might’ve been a sigh of exasperation or a huffed chuckle, and a moment later Bilbo felt a thud through the ground as Thorin settled down. He kept his eyes on a little brush-stroke cloud above, thought, even when the heat of Thorin’s body – somehow different to that of the sun – brushed like soft fur down his side.

‘Hmm,’ Bilbo hummed, directing a small grin up at the cloud despite himself at the quiet sounds of Thorin’s uncomfortable squirming. Why the idiot dwarf consistently insisted upon always wearing his armour, Bilbo would never know. ‘A honeybee,’ he decided. Transferring his gaze to another cloud, he squinted for a moment. ‘A rabbit. With a very deformed head.’ He laughed quietly at a thick cloud which formed a rather distinctive shape. ‘A bear, oh, how fitting.’

Bilbo felt Thorin turn towards him more than he saw it. Looking over, he was met by furrowed brows and vaguely confused blue eyes; after a moment his attention was briefly snared by the contrast of the dark fall of Thorin’s hair against the vibrant grass, like silver-streaked ink spilled onto emerald.

‘What are you doing?’

Thorin’s deep voice broke Bilbo from his wandering thoughts and he blinked, replying without thought. ‘Why, cloud-gazing, of course.’

‘Cloud…gazing?’ Thorin questioned, the polite puzzlement creasing his face merely deepening. If this was to be taken as any indication the term was unfamiliar to him -- well, _obviously,_ Bilbo realised.

‘Oh, I forget that you lived below a mountain. Silly me.’ He huffed a little at himself before deciding that Thorin’s lapse in knowledge absolutely had to be rectified. Squirming over to the dwarf’s side, he took one of Thorin’s hands as he squinted up to the sky in search of a good cloud. With his grip he pointed Thorin’s hand up to a cloud certainly shaped like a young child, curling three wide fingers down to form a pointing finger. ‘See that cloud? What would you say it is?’

He heard Thorin’s uncomfortable rumble through the press of their shoulders, something warm tracing down his sternum at the openly expressive sound. It would never cease to amaze him, how open Thorin was before him as compared to his Company.

‘I…a, a goblin?’ Thorin hazarded.

Thinking of his own interpretation and Hamfast’s dubious mutterings about Lobelia’s son Lotho, Bilbo truly couldn’t help the laughter which sent him curling up into Thorin’s side to muffle it into his furs. Eventually he reappeared, setting his chin on Thorin’s chest to beam at him, amused.

‘A goblin?’ Bilbo repeated, his grin bleeding into his tone. ‘Truly?’

‘…I do not know overmuch about such things,’ Thorin replied after a moment, grumpily. But there was some tone to his blue eyes – almost ashamed, as if it was a _confession_ , as if Bilbo was going to be angry with him, as though it was a decidedly bad thing which could never be atoned for. A prickle of discomfort interrupted Bilbo’s bubbling joy but he merely took Thorin’s hand and pressed a kiss to his tough palm, slanting him a smile when he placed it back upon Thorin’s breastplate.

‘Hush now, and watch the clouds,’ Bilbo said without heat or reproach, before tacking on an ‘and enjoy it.’ He knew that he’d taken the right approach when the solemnity in Thorin’s eyes vanished in the face of sparkling humour and he settled more comfortably into the grass.

‘Is that an order, Master Baggins?’

Humming contentedly, Bilbo wriggled around until he was sprawled across Thorin on his back, and tipped his chin back to study the sky, lips still tingling with the touch of Thorin’s skin curving into a smile.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Hmm,’ Thorin merely replied mock-dubiously. Bilbo squirmed a little at the vibrations against his back. His eyes were drawn back to the boundless sky above, however, and a moment later its endless peace stilled him and he settled back against Thorin, no matter how bloody uncomfortable a pillow his armour made. Thorin was _his_ and Bilbo would use him as a bed if he so pleased, thank you very kindly.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Bilbo reached up to the sky, splaying his fingers and studying the effect of the delicate eggshell blue against his sun-touched skin. ‘That’s my favourite colour, you know.’ He wasn’t entirely sure why he told Thorin so, perhaps as he wanted the dwarf to remember _something_ about him when he was King of Erebor.

‘Mine is…the shade of deep earth,’ Thorin said thoughtfully. His voice dropped a little and became almost wistful. ‘As soft as a doe’s pelt and warm as golden flame on a winter’s night.’ Something about the rich timbre of his voice, or his words perhaps, made Bilbo flustered for a reason which he could not name. He wriggled a little and briefly pressed both hands to the heat of his cheeks, cursing the midnight-velvet of Thorin’s voice…though, he couldn’t truly despise it too much. Or at all. If he was being honest.

‘Tell me something,’ Bilbo said suddenly, simply to break a silence which suddenly held too much. He wanted to return to before, to light-hearted bliss, where there were no responsibilities or longing or terribly important _feelings_ at all.

Thorin shifted beneath him. Bilbo flushed even darker and did his best to ignore the low, relieved groan which slipped from Thorin’s chest when he stretched and folded strong arms behind his head. ‘What do you wish to hear of?’

‘Tell me of a moment,’ Bilbo decided. ‘Your happiest moment.’ 

Because Thorin comfortable and warm and relaxed was simply beautiful, but even then Bilbo knew that he carried the weight of too much, too many. He wanted to hear of a time when none of that. And if the thought of a tiny adorable dwarfling Thorin factored into his decision – well, he was sure that Thorin wouldn’t find out.

For a while Bilbo merely listened to the drone of bees and the whisper of the maple trees and did not allow himself to fret – because Thorin was pliant as ever beneath him and Bilbo continually reminded himself that the dwarf was likely just thinking.

Eventually Thorin cleared his throat and shifted slightly in indication of his readiness. The movement sent his rich pine-smoke scent swirling through the air and Bilbo shifted slightly towards it despite himself.  

'Thráin the Second,’ Thorin began, his lovely voice adapting the flowing cadence of a tale, ‘Prince-Regent of Erebor, was well known throughout the cities of our people for blocking off two hours every day, every afternoon, during which brewed home-made wine which was thought to surpass even that of Dorwinion in quality and taste. All affairs of state had to wait while he did this.’ Thorin puffed out a small laugh, unknowingly breaking the spell which his deep tone had cast over the hobbit sprawled over his chest. When he began again it was in a tone thickened with amusement. ‘But he did not do it alone. The Royal Princes and Princess – Frerin, Dís, and Thorin the Second—’ Bilbo could _hear_ his smirk— ‘would assist greatly in the process, pulping the grapes which Thráin brought with their hands and feet. Every few days, the mixture would have to be stirred, and when it was ready the three would assist their father in the sampling.’ Thorin’s evident amusement was infectious and Bilbo found himself grinning not only at this but the knowledge of where the story would likely head. ‘Unfortunately, as you may be able to guess, dwarflings do not have the strongest constitution, and one day the Princess Freia returned to the royal chambers, her first words to her husband being ‘ _Excuse me, but why are my twenty-four year old, sixteen year old and eight year old dwarflings drunk_?’’ 

Bilbo burst into rather undignified laughter at the mental image and the thought of three young dwarflings red-faced and stumbling – oh dear, how irresponsible the Prince-Regent must have been! He heard Thorin’s deep chuckles underlay his and a shiver of pleasure and fondness sparkled down his spine, but instead of snuggling closer as he wished to he rolled off to splay once more on the grass, watching how Thorin grinned up at the sky with pure white teeth bright against the darkness of his beard.

‘What is yours, then?’ Thorin asked brightly. Noticing his gaze begin to move Bilbo quickly looked away, eyes darting down as if they’d been there all along. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and rolled onto his back.

‘Well, I can’t say that mine will be anything near as amusing as yours,’ he said, stretching out his back and digging his fingers into the rich dirt behind his head. ‘But it’s only fair to give my own, I suppose.’ Thinking for a moment, Bilbo gathered his dusty story-weaving skills, honed before wide-eyed fauntlings since he was one himself. ‘When the sun is slowly melting into a pool of spilling amber and vibrant shades of fuchsia kiss the horizon, a warm breeze is sifting through the trees of The Shire and heralding the beginning of the most beautiful nightly dance. Like tiny shooting stars, magical little creatures flicker and wink and pause for breath on moon-drenched leaves.’ Bilbo, for a moment, could almost see the incredible flight of fireflies in the forests of his home. ‘From the moment a certain young hobbit lad stumbled across them he was quite – _quite_ – determined to catch one, let me tell you. He was absolutely set on bringing one of these creatures home, simply to prove all the fauntlings who didn’t believe his tales of the stars falling from the sky to dance among the trees.’

‘And did he catch one?’ Thorin asked willingly, appearing suitably engrossed, not entirely different from Bilbo’s usual audience of twelve and thirteen-year-olds. Bilbo tipped his head to give him a significant look. His solemn expression twitched a little at the way Thorin had turned his head towards him completely, looking a little too engaged despite himself.

‘He did indeed. After many hours of perseverance and quite a few scraped knees (and exasperated sighs from his father) the young lad trapped one of the glowing creatures in a jar – and, of course, went straight off to show it to the ones who hadn’t believed him. They were quite shocked, let me tell you! A captured star!’ Bilbo chuckled, recalling the usually-surly, superior, oh-so-admirable teenage Hamfast’s uncharacteristically wide-eyed look of wonder. ‘Eventually the hobbit led them to the glade, and you can see why he believed them to be stars, scattered around that night-darkened dell, except they were too bright a yellow, more like flecks of sunshine than starlight…’ He trailed off with a wistful feeling heavy on his chest. Bilbo hadn’t seen that glade for years; and now thinking of it, he couldn’t seem to conjure a reason why. He supposed that the magic had simply disappeared throughout the years.

Yet _now_ was not the time for such thoughts, Bilbo reminded himself, the sight of the clear sky above loosening the tight pull of his shoulders. It reminded of who had brought him such content, who had reminded him of such forgotten memories. Bilbo tipped his head to smile at Thorin; he knew that his eyes were creasing and that his expression was terribly open and that maybe some… _things_ which he didn’t quite want to think about were seeping into his expression, but for once he didn’t mind.

‘Bilbo…’

Thorin’s voice was hesitant. The strong line of his jaw was working almost as if he was chewing on his next words like gum leaves, and had Bilbo been less relaxed he likely would’ve been worried about the words trapped behind troubled azure eyes. As it was he merely stretched up his arms and replied easily, ‘Yes, Thorin?’

‘I—’

For a moment Bilbo thought that he saw Thorin’s strong face _crumple_ like an abandoned paper bag, but it disappeared after a moment and he was left only with a nagging fear of ever seeing that expression again.

‘…It is nothing.’ Rolling onto his back and staring determinedly up at the sky, his hands laced over his hauberk, Thorin obviously considered the topic dismissed. Bilbo, meanwhile, had absolutely no idea what to say. He had always despised such situations, when emotional reassurance was required, when he had to second-guess the other’s every expression and recall their pasts, their hurts, their most vulnerable spots, when he tried to formulate words. And for all of his effort he usually just seemed to make things worse.

So Bilbo cleared his throat, and said ‘Alright.’

Thorin shot him a startled look and he couldn’t help smiling faintly at it. The regal dwarf king  resembled nothing more than a disconcerted fawn, peering with massive eyes disarmed with shock. Really, it was ridiculous. Bilbo would be an idiot to push Thorin further when he was so obviously uncomfortable. Without a thought he reached out and took a large, toughened hand and twined their fingers together, revelling in the rough warmth of it; he looked up to see blue eyes softened once more, the strong winged brow relaxed, a small curve playing about that stern mouth.

In that moment it seemed to be enough. It seemed to be enough, with the soft grass tickling Bilbo's neck and the amber sunshine washing over his skin, sending warmth straight through his soft white shirt, a light breeze playing with Thorin’s silver-streaked hair and the perfect azure sky reflected in his peaceful eyes, unwrinkled by strain, framed lazily by dark lashes. That simple hand hold, the lazy tangling of their fingers, seemed so much more intimate than any other embrace they’d shared. Perhaps some part of Bilbo was scared by it. Quite a large part, if he was being honest. But at that moment he pushed it away in favour of such a rare moment, a moment which, after the conclusion of their quest, would never be repeated. Bilbo almost wished that he could keep this forever, so close on the brink of the thought, so very, very close to giving in to the shimmering, splendid, achingly beautiful thing twisting in his heart that he could almost taste it like bitter honey on his tongue –

Bilbo startled from such wandering thoughts as a sudden touch brushed against his toe. Shooting to a sit he stared uncomprehendingly for a moment at the fat bumblebee hovering in an ungainly wobble, following with his eyes as it bumbled up to alight ponderously on the tip of Thorin’s hawkish nose. Instead of slapping it away (or perhaps yelping) as Bilbo may have expected, Thorin merely wrinkled the aforementioned appendage and guided the insect away with one long finger. It willingly left, weaving a meandering path towards the cluster of squat beehives on the other side of the open swathe of grass.

‘I did not see those,’ Thorin murmured. His hand shifted slightly in Bilbo’s as he sat up with a grunt, but it did not withdraw and the unexpected and entirely mysterious feeling which made Bilbo’s skin grow warm gave tinder to the spark of an entirely Tookish idea. He pursed his lips and gave Thorin a narrowed, evaluative look, and for all that the dwarf tried to conceal his discomfort Bilbo could spot a telling shade of red through the dark fall of his hair. At least he wasn’t resorting to scowling to hide it…this time. Though his voice was even gruffer than usual when he spoke.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Bilbo said blandly. ‘Just a little idea.’

Thorin raised a dark brow at him, which was then transferred to the beehives and back, joined by its twin when Thorin evidently realised what Bilbo was plotting. Though much as he couldn’t hide the flush of his ears, he also couldn’t hide the reluctant, irrepressible curve to his thin lips.

Or perhaps he could, but _chose_ not to.

‘Well then,’ Thorin said with a regal tilt of his head. ‘Are we to act upon that idea?’

Bilbo smiled and languidly stretched out his back, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s, so astutely amused upon him. Thorin _was_ more than just a body to command. He’d known that, of course he had, but he’d never truly realised it until now – Thorin was brave, intelligent, and above all, his own person. Thorin was a King.

But, well, for now he was _Bilbo’s_ King, and Bilbo certainly wasn’t the fool to waste such a royal opportunity.

‘Yes, I do believe we shall,’ Bilbo replied primly. Thorin flashed him a grin – a _real_ , full, heart-stopping smile, brighter than the sun and sweeter than honey – and Bilbo was forced to jump smartly to his feet and tug Thorin after him with a strength that he knew surprised the dwarf before that, that  _feeling_ in his chest could own him completely.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested 'Loveless' by X Ambassadors is Bilbo's song in this fic...and Naked is definitely Thorin's uwu
> 
> Feedback is always super encouraging and lets me know where you guys want this to go so come in and drop some (like it's hot okay sorry yes I know I'm burning in hell)
> 
> The NEXT chapter is smut I promise. And also half-finished. So yay?


	7. IV: Beorn's House (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bzz?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys :D
> 
> two months, what two months?

In a deliciously slow, decadent movement, Bilbo ran one finger from Thorin’s sternum down to the sensitive patch of skin below his navel, following that enticing treasure trail of dark curls. The movement carved a path through the layer of thick honey turning Thorin’s skin glittering as the gold his people so craved, his fingertip just barely brushing against warm, taut skin. Bilbo gave a low sound of content and leaned his cheek into his other palm. He traced lazy circles through the nectar pooling in the dip of a muscle-strapped hipbone.

‘You look upon me as though I were a suckling pig, bound for your pleasure,’ came the deeply amused tone of Thorin’s voice. Despite his words he was obviously not too opposed to the position, so Bilbo merely tilted up his chin to grin at him. Met with a questioningly raised brow and a smile tugging at thin lips, Bilbo’s cheeky smile widened and he brought his hand away from Thorin’s waist.

‘Mm, that’s a little off, actually,’ Bilbo mused, mock-absently tapping one sticky finger against his lips. ‘I’d say you were more of a _dessert_.’ He hid a smirk against his fingertip as Thorin’s gorgeous eyes followed the movement with an unceasing concentration not dissimilar to that found on the battlefield. ‘Like…treacle tart. Or praline. Oh – or perhaps a dark caramel chocolate cake. All dark and rich and drizzled in nectar, only for me.’ With a slow dart of his tongue Bilbo caught a droplet of honey inching down his finger, never breaking eye contact with Thorin. ‘Positively delicious.’ He then broke the façade to grin widely. Thorin’s temples crinkled as his lips curved in return, sending a warm shock through Bilbo’s body. The thing about it was, the very depressing, desperate sort of thing, was that Bilbo had been searching for exactly that; fishing, if you will. One of the rare Oakenshield smiles, which was gorgeous and breathtaking and frankly Bilbo thought himself quite in the right to extract as many as he possibly could.

Thorin’s head tilted to the side on their cushion of his interlinked hands. ‘How very cunning of you, Master Baggins,’ he said, midwinter eyes sparkling with mirth. Bilbo tutted away the butterflies in his belly and flicked at Thorin’s side.

‘On the contrary,’ he began officiously, fingers wandering to trace patterns across Thorin’s ribs, ‘I am merely a hungry hobbit wishing to enjoy his – _very_ tempting, mind – meal.’

Thorin raised a dark eyebrow. His chin dipped, taut biceps shifting where they were exposed by his fortuitous lack of shirt, skin copper against the pure white of the bedding strewn across the floor. ‘Is that so?’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘Then please, do not let me hinder your partaking.’ Thorin slipped a hand free to indicate the hard planes of his honey-drizzled torso in a single sweeping movement. Huffing a small laugh at his pure inanity, Bilbo wriggled slightly further up Thorin’s side in order to better meet his eyes.

‘That is quite uncharacteristically generous of you, Master Oakenshield.’

‘And you must know much of generosity,’ Thorin replied seriously, ‘seeing as you have chosen only the finest of chambers for our meeting. A linen closet! Truly a place of tryst fit for a king. Indeed, I feel almost humbled by the splendour, the pure _majesty_ of such a place—’

Bilbo could only splutter, thrown by the sudden demonstration of levity which Thorin had never, ever shown before, merely hinted at. He thus resorted to screwing up his face in what he hoped approached anger and trying not to break beneath Thorin’s ridiculously proud grin, his insides abominably warm and tingly. ‘Why, you – you!’

Thorin raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in some foul imitation of innocence. ‘I?’

‘Silt-brained idiot,’ Bilbo snapped, squinting his eyes to annoyed slits.

‘You are pouting, my dear hobbit.’

‘I am most certainly not!’ Bilbo replied hotly, poking at Thorin’s shoulder. ‘And I’ll have you know, this is a perfectly respectable linen closet. There are windows with a very nice view of the garden, and plenty of clean pillows and sheets, and _perhaps_ if a _certain dwarf_ were not quite so snobbish or, or snooty, or unapologetically _pompous_ —’

He was cut off by Thorin’s sudden hoarse peal of laughter, the dwarf tipping back his head to chuckle helplessly as Bilbo sat back and merely watched in bemusement as his face screwed up and he wheezed for breath in the most un-royal manner. ‘Oh – oh Mahâl, that is _fantastic_ ,’ Thorin huffed. ‘Ouch.’

‘You are such a child,’ Bilbo said exasperatedly; but as his dwarf winced and poked at his sore abdomen, tears of mirth still beaded at the crinkled corners of his eyes, he could nothelp his smile.

‘A child, eh?’ Thorin asked after a pause. Bilbo gave him a very pointed look and he arched a brow in return, scratching at his short beard with his free hand with a would-be-casual expression.

‘Are you honestly denying it?’

‘Most certainly,’ the dwarf replied officiously. ‘Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, is no child. In fact I believe myself to be the most mature of our entire Company.’

Bilbo flashed an impish grin. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ His touch drifted to the spot between Thorin’s left rib and pectoral, dancing lightly across the sticky skin. Thorin gave a strained noise and shied vainly away from the touch. Bilbo, however, wouldn’t relent, ruthlessly teasing the spot until Thorin was choking on helpless laughter and squirming like a restless fauntling. 

‘Bilbo – Bilbo, _please_ —’ 

Bilbo poked into a certain spot and Thorin gave a startled noise that could only be described as a _giggle_.

Bilbo’s head dropped, shoulders shaking with helpless laughter as the noise echoed over and over in his head and Thorin huffed above him, offended. The sullen look which narrowed his eyes was, without a doubt, most _unquestionably_ childish but Bilbo took pity on his dwarf and buried his snorts into Thorin’s side.

‘I am a _king_ ,’ Thorin muttered, tone long-sufferingly resigned. As Bilbo drew away he chuckled and patted Thorin’s clothed hip indulgently. 

‘Yes, yes, of course you are,’ Bilbo replied cheerily. ‘And a king with an exceedingly ticklish spot at that.’ He tapped a meandering pattern down a paper-thin scar trailing down Thorin’s side, careful around the more recent blemishes. ‘Not to mention drizzled in quite delicious honey.’

‘I do not suppose that you would know it to be delicious,’ came Thorin’s grumpy reply, vibrating down his body. ‘Seeing as you insist upon dawdling endlessly.’

Bilbo rolled his eyes at his dramatics. ‘Oh, my _apologies_ , Your Majesty. I suppose I shall get straight to it then.’ He glanced up to see Thorin repressing a smile, fine lines prominent around his brightly amused eyes. Bilbo wished that he could put it into words, how Thorin looked so… whole, so handsome and young, when he smiled – but he settled for kissing it into Thorin’s skin. 

‘Kindly do,’ Thorin replied, tone somehow steady despite the restless shifting of his smooth muscles beneath Bilbo’s lips, tasting of honey and fir needles and glistening sweat. Bilbo hummed into the lean dip of the trail down his dwarf’s abdomen, allowing his propping elbow to collapse and instead sprawling across Thorin’s stomach, his arms loosely encircling a slim waist. Thorin grunted at the sudden impact. ‘You are surprisingly weighty for such a small creature,’ the dwarf said, his voice indeed a little strained.

‘Hmm, well, you know how I enjoy my food.’ Bilbo’s words were peppered with slow licks up Thorin’s sweet-tinged skin. Thorin took a stuttered breath, pausing as if about to reply, and Bilbo would have none of it; he moved to drag his lips up between Thorin’s rounded pectorals, then doubled back to taste honeyed nipples, set his teeth and scrape softly. A bitten curse was followed by a large hand in his hair – rough, but its touch careful. Bilbo licked along the bow-like curve of Thorin’s collarbone, smiling both at the golden nectar pooled there and Thorin’s restless hips. He seemed louder that day, more impatient, his smooth chest hitching beneath Bilbo’s and his free hand finding the hobbit’s side when he moved to straddle his ribcage. Bilbo pushed up to nuzzle beneath the rough angle of Thorin’s jaw, the upturned curve of his nose prickling along the edge of Thorin’s beard. He couldn’t really pretend to be merely interested in the honey any longer, but that had merely been a façade in the first place; and by the eager rise and fall of Thorin’s lovely torso Bilbo supposed that his dwarf wasn’t too opposed to the notion either.

‘It cannot possibly taste so…so good there,’ Thorin managed, his words hitching against Bilbo’s chest. 

‘On the very firm contrary,’ Bilbo murmured into his chiselled temple. ‘Here it tastes sweetest of all.’ Simply to prove his point he briefly nosed into Thorin’s warmly soft hair, smelling of Beorn’s vanilla soap and spices and fresh winter. Thorin let slip a tiny sigh in response and Bilbo pulled away just in time to see his lashes drift darkly against his cheek as he turned his head away, the wrinkles carved down his forehead relaxing.

‘Far be it from me to keep you from what pleasures you,’ Thorin murmured. A gentle hand alighted upon the small of Bilbo’s back. The touch, for all its innocent simplicity, made Bilbo’s skin grow warm and he brushed his smiling lips against Thorin’s cheek. When he tried to draw away he found that he couldn’t and instead moved to Thorin’s forehead, littering kisses so faint they were whispers along his hairline.

‘Your words are ever so sweet, love,’ Bilbo said softly. He reached the curve of Thorin’s ear and grinned to see it reddened, the crimson colour bright beneath his silver ear-cuff. ‘Hmm, do you like that? It is rather fitting, after all.’ He ran his teeth down Thorin’s neck and felt a rush of possessiveness when he arched his chin back, allowing Bilbo better access to salt-tinged skin. Songs could be written about Thorin’s neck, most likely by Bilbo, though they would be terribly unfit for polite company. He bit at the tendon and Thorin groaned incoherently, turning his head into the sheets. 

‘How’s that?’ Bilbo asked with a much more sincere note to his voice. His hands didn’t still, petting the hard press of Thorin’s body beneath him with soothing strokes; wherever they travelled, he felt taut muscles loosen and relax until his dwarf was sinking boneless into the crisp white sheets.

Thorin’s reply was more of an incoherent, mumbling purr than a word. Especially given that it was in the grating-stone language of the dwarves. 

‘ _Ursel_.’

‘In Westron, love,’ Bilbo coaxed, unable to stave off a grin when Thorin merely gave a protesting whine and pulled the sheets over his head. ‘Don’t be a child.’ With a roll of his eyes Bilbo pulled the sheet away, tugging it from Thorin’s thankfully lax grip, only to be confronted with – well, with _Thorin_. Spiralling strands of black-and-silver hair were strewn across his face, hiding neither the red tinge to his cheekbones, the defiant cast to his face,  or the mere thin sliver of silvery-blue still visible around the blown width of his pupil.

‘Hot,’ Thorin gritted in a voice of embers and smoke, and really Bilbo wasn’t at all liable for fisting his hand in that silky mane and dragging him up for a bruising kiss. Bilbo all but devoured him until Thorin gave up on his brief flare of dominance and merely let Bilbo take what he would, trapped between his mouth and hand.

Drawing back, the sight of Thorin divested of both shirt and breath, honey glittering from his neck to navel, mingling with the sweat sheening his skin, his cheekbones flushed red, sent a rush of possessiveness and desire and something unidentifiably warm scattering Bilbo’s thoughts like a gale through autumn leaves. He gave an exhale which matched the frantic beat of his heart and pressed Thorin back to the floor, diving back down to share the honey on his tongue. Bilbo was careless with his strength, verging on rough – but before he could begin to delve into the wild mess of his mind and gain back control Thorin began to pant and arch and clench at his shirt, a constant refrain of _‘yes’_ and _‘hot’_ and _‘more’_ sweet to his ears. Thorin gave a particularly attractive whine and Bilbo groaned into the hollow of his jaw. The hobbit could feel the coiled strength thrumming through Thorin’s body, knew that if his dwarf so decided he could easily flip Bilbo right over and pin him down. But he _wouldn’t_. And that meant more than any physical inferiority. The fact that he could, but restrained himself – no, more that, he would likely never even consider it, because he trusted Bilbo to bring him pleasure – made Bilbo feel something past words. So he compromised by nuzzling deeper into Thorin’s hot, accepting mouth and stroking down his slightly sticky sides with confident touches. Thorin’s own strong hands were mimicking his own, sliding roughly up to Bilbo’s ribs as he groaned and bucked into the hobbit’s body. Bilbo did his best to ignore the way his heart raced and how Thorin’s fingertips felt like tongues of fire drawn across his bared skin, pulling back with a desperate breath and thoroughly tousled curls.

Thorin met his wild eyes with irises completely dazed and complaint, unreservedly and completely trustingly waiting for his dominant’s next move, the little flyaways from his unkempt hair sticking to the bridge of his nose making him look a century younger.

‘You, Thorin Oakenshield, are the _most_ —’

He cut himself off with a rough bite to Thorin’s tendon, too desperate to think coherently. It was easy to settle between the dwarf’s legs, Bilbo’s mind scattering at the sensation of strong thighs shifting beneath his touch, never mind that they was still clad in thick Dwarvish pants. He propped himself on his knees and raked blunt nails down Thorin’s torso, watching with dark hunger the swiftly reddening lines left behind and the way sweat and honey glittered across Thorin’s skin as he writhed frantically. Bilbo’s mind had been broken to the fundamentals, whittled to the lingering taste on his tongue and the rush in his ears and the hot body beneath him, the aching pound of his heartbeat through his body and the tingling oversensitivity of his fingertips. 

A new sort of hunger struck a match and enflamed within him, burning bright, insistent and undeniable. Bilbo mouthed his way down Thorin’s chest, panting into sweet skin as overwhelming tastes mingled on his tongue. When Bilbo dipped his tongue into his navel Thorin moaned, long and pleading; when he bit into a jutting hipbone just barely showing above his waistband Thorin bucked off the floor. The afternoon light was becoming amber, turning the dwarf’s skin as golden as the honey still tingling on Bilbo’s tongue.

‘ _Madtubirzul_ –’ Thorin groaned suddenly. ‘Bilbo, _please_ …’

Pressing a staying hand against the restless shift of Thorin’s abdomen, Bilbo directed a lopsided grin up at his dwarf. His heartbeat pounded through his body and to his burning ears and a large part of his mind simply wanted to get on with it, but another, another – 

‘Yes, Thorin?’ he asked innocently. He suspected that his eyes might’ve been too dark by far to pass off such levity, but it wasn’t like Thorin was looking. His face was buried into the crook of one strong arm, curling hair strewn across the pillow like ribbons of starshot night. What Bilbo could see was, predictably enough, glowing red – and he found the vestiges of his animalistic need slip away at the sight, replaced by a softer, comfortable warmth.

Bilbo would never have seen that if he hadn’t slowed down. So he couldn’t regret it. And besides, he might be able to exact himself a richer prize soon enough…maybe, just maybe, another rare Oakenshield smile.

‘Please—’

‘Please what?’

Thorin propped himself up on unsteady elbows and gave Bilbo an entirely unimpressed glare. 

‘Bilbo,’ he growled, deep voice laced with warning. The hobbit ignored the little shivery feeling which that particular tone unearthed and tilted his head to the side, expression politely questioning as his fingers traced patterns on the burning skin of Thorin’s abdomen. Having felt the dwarf’s heat before, he was fairly sure that it was nothing more than a difference between their species, albeit one convenient on cold winter nights.

Not that they’d be spending any cold winter nights together any time soon. Or ever.

Bilbo told his mind to kindly shut up.

‘You really must learn to slow down. Enjoy life’s pleasures.’ Bilbo pushed Thorin back down to the sheets with a supposedly coy look ruined by the cheeky grin tugging at his mouth. Thorin’s hands reached for his waist but he fended them off, angling his chin to look down at Thorin arrogantly. ‘Case and point.’

Thorin’s eyes flashed with some unreadable emotion – but by then Bilbo knew him well enough to understand that it was far from anything negative. And if he hadn’t, the hardness burning tellingly into his thigh would likely have tipped him off. Bilbo’s smile widened and he slid his hands up Thorin’s firm stomach, traced his way slowly, almost reverently, up Thorin’s abdomen, swirling patterns on his stomach and tracing lines of meaningless letters up his sides, drawing vines below his pectorals and a sunflower up his sternum. He continued until Thorin shivered at his every touch and gooseflesh covered the dwarf’s skin. 

‘See, this is much nicer,’ Bilbo murmured absently. His wandering fingers slid up Thorin’s soft neck and sank into silken hair, and he watched, unable to look away even if he had wanted to, as Thorin melted into the touch. Pale blue eyes stayed open, through no small effort Bilbo suspected, as the dwarf pushed into his hand.

‘You truly are like a massively overgrown cat,’ Bilbo commented. His thumb stroked away the tension in Thorin’s jaw. ‘It’s lovely.’

Thorin let out a soft hum, the tiniest curl of a smile hovering about his lips. ‘Why am I suspecting that you have an ulterior motive?’

‘Because you’re a sight further than marginally intelligent,’ Bilbo replied with somewhat of a smirk. He didn’t miss the slight dip of Thorin’s chin at the phrase, nor the manner in which his eyes darted away. For the moment he let it slide, merely scratching his fingers carefully through Thorin’s tangled hair and pursing his lips to hide a smile when Thorin hummed again, the sound coming dangerously close to a purr.

‘Hmm…whatever this cryptic motive may be, I do not find myself overly disposed to pursue it at the moment.’

‘Well, good,’ Bilbo replied.

Thorin moved as if to rise, but Bilbo’s clever fingers found a particular spot near the nape of his neck and he abruptly sank back down, his eyes sliding out of focus, and a pleased sound escaped him before he could do anything about it. Before long he blinked his eyes back to clarity and attempted a glare, but by then Bilbo had already memorised the exact chain of events. Only the merest brush to the spot and he was all but purring.

‘Stop that,’ Thorin muttered darkly.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, the movement of his hands ceasing. ‘Really?’

Thorin scowled at him. Bilbo tilted his head in reply and after a moment his dwarf looked away, the crimson of his ears bright against their silver cuffs. ‘You know very well not. Impudent hobbit.’

‘Impudent, am I?’ Bilbo asked lightly, a small amount of the warmth behind his ribcage seeping into his tone. ‘I’m not the one who turned his big nose up at a perfectly nice linen closet—’

‘Perfectly nice!’ Thorin exclaimed. His blush faded to be replaced by a slightly wicked look in his eyes, which Bilbo glared at, instantly suspicious. An emotion he had a right to, as it turned out when with barely an ounce of effort he flipped them over. Bilbo’s first reaction was to stiffen; but a moment later Thorin’s hair came swinging down around them like a curtain, swiftly followed by his scent of iron and pine, his blue eyes bright, and he realised that he was being ridiculous. ‘Hardly,’ the dwarf continued archly, before adding: ‘And my nose is not _big.’_

Bilbo grinned up at him. ‘Of course it is. That’s part of the charm.’

Thorin’s only reply was to wrinkle his nose, so of course Bilbo had to reach up around his neck and tug his head down so that he could kiss it. He felt the warm puff of Thorin’s near-silent chuckle against his throat, as the dwarf pushed up to brush his lips against Bilbo's jaw. 

A moment later Bilbo drew away in order to meet his eyes.  ‘You’re ridiculous,’ he said fondly.

Thorin raised a dark brow, unperturbed. ‘And you are not?’

‘Fair enough,’ Bilbo ceded. ‘I’ll admit to that much.’ Thorin exhaled on a grin and there, there it was. Pure and young and unreservedly happy. Bilbo spared a moment to kiss him, feeling the soft shift of his lips and the warmth of his body. Afterwards he pushed imperiously at Thorin’s muscular shoulder and ordered, ‘All right. Off me, you great lump.’  Thorin snorted but complied, flopping over with a careless sort of contrariness, folding his arms behind his head once more and raising both eyebrows. Shaking his head in exasperation, Bilbo straddled him and tried to rake his curls into some sort of order.

‘My hair is completely tangled, you brute. Have you no regard for the appearance of such common peasantry?’

Thorin’s mouth formed an entirely adorable twist as he tried not to laugh. ‘Well, it does come with being a King.’

Bilbo gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Quite an unfortunate drawback, I must admit.’

‘I have no doubt that you will suffer through, _madtubirzul_.’

‘Oh yes?’ Bilbo questioned with fake surprise. ‘Even with the _great_ _trial_ which is dealing with Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, future King Under The Mountain, paradigm of maturity, illustrious leader of our Company—’

‘Enough!’ Thorin laughed. ‘Enough. Your point is made.’

‘Is it? I’m not sure it is.’

‘It _most certainly_ is,’ the dwarf told him with a distinct tone of amusement. A moment later Bilbo felt the touch of skilled fingers warm through the cloth at his waist, whispering against his cotton shirt.

‘Hmm,’ Bilbo said non-committedly, folding his arms. ‘Convince me.’

Thorin sat up slowly, one arm supporting the hobbit’s back as his bright eyes, blue as aster, filled his vision. ‘Yes, Bilbo.’ 

Then the silk of his lips and the light scrape of his beard were on Bilbo’s neck. His large hands skilfully untucked his shirt, sliding a burning path up Bilbo’s back – he couldn’t help but arch into the contact, gripping at Thorin’s hair. Thorin groaned quietly into his neck, beginning to murmur soft words which Bilbo couldn’t understand but painted his skin with jangling nerves and a cold flush which shivered down his spine. He’d never – never felt – Bilbo gasped his appreciation, tugging all the harder at Thorin’s braids. It was hot and cold, ice and fire as Thorin’s blazing touches left shudders in their wake. 

‘Thorin – Thorin, I, I – _yes_ ,’ he panted, hips beginning to move into Thorin’s inviting warmth. Thorin made a pleased noise and joined his messy rhythm, mouthing his way to Bilbo’s clavicle as his clever fingers made quick work of the hobbit’s shirt. Bilbo had – he’d _had_ some sort of plan, he knew that much, but with Thorin _here_ and beneath him and moving with him he found himself quite forgetting it, and not much caring either. He ground down strongly and Thorin gave a rough whimper, bucking upwards and grabbing at Bilbo’s hips.

‘Now,’ he pleaded. ‘Now, _kidhuzel_ , please, I cannot continue to—’

‘I know,’ Bilbo hushed him, words strained. ‘Don’t fret, love, I know.’

He managed to get his knees beneath him and with that he found purchase, able to better control the speed and angle of their movements. He thought about stopping and doing this properly but there wasn’t enough _time_ , Thorin was desperate and solid and burning hot beneath him and Bilbo’s blood was roaring in his ears and manifesting in his cock. Pressing closer into Thorin’s body he tugged back his dwarf’s head with a jerk at his hair and claimed his mouth, kissing him roughly as his pulse beat faster and faster. There were still traces of honey on his tongue.

Then Thorin’s hands on his hips pulled him down exactly when he thrust up and Bilbo bent to smother a cry into Thorin’s neck, pleasure sending heat to wash over his body. He felt his dwarf’s throat work beneath his lips with his ruined groan. 

‘Augh, B-Bilbo…’

Driven by a sudden rush of something burning and avaricious and irresistible, Bilbo nipped at Thorin’s jaw and reached down between their bodies. Somehow his fumbling fingers managed to undo the lacings of Thorin’s pants and he reached to find hot velvet skin which jumped at his touch.

‘ _Kahomhîlizu!_ ’ Thorin shouted desperately, arching into his hand. Bilbo bit down heavily on his lip, struggling to think through the haze which was his mind – he pressed his face into the hollow of Thorin’s throat and began to move his hand, working Thorin’s cock with a quick and sure grip. He jerked with surprise when Thorin’s hand found his – but he couldn’t hold back a pleading sound when rough fingers wrapped around his own cock. It was like moving mountains but he pushed them away, only to wrap his grip around both and guide Thorin to join with his own. Dark hair was a sheaf of silk around them, hiding them from the rest of the world; Bilbo’s breaths was loud in his ears, mingled with Thorin’s deep groans and panted whines. He was rambling constantly, a string of Westron and Khuzdul in his beautiful rich voice

‘Mahâl, Bilbo, _labathmizu,_ more than gold, more than anything—’

but Bilbo couldn’t say anything more than 

‘Thorin, Thorin, _Thorin_ —’

and soon enough it was all too much, Thorin’s touch hot around him, his taste of sweat and honey, his scent, his warmth, his voice absolutely ruined around the syllables of his name; Bilbo pulled Thorin to him and kissed him, messy and incoherent, through both Thorin’s peak and his own, until they were shivering and sated and panting into each other’s mouths.

‘Nng,’ Thorin muffled. ‘My back.’

With that he collapsed back down onto the sheets and Bilbo shaded his eyes as he laughed, at what he didn’t know, the pure inanity of Thorin’s comment or the ridiculousness of the situation or some other unnamed reason. After a moment he removed it in favour of grinning helplessly down at his dwarf. Thorin was sprawled on the sheets, the heave of his chest slowing as he came down from his crest.

‘I’m sure you’ll live,' Bilbo said unsympathetically. 'You’re a big, tough Dwarven warrior, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t much feel like it,’ Thorin mumbled, half-asleep already. Bilbo tutted and wrinkled his nose, poking at his dwarf’s shoulder insistently.

‘Thorin, you’re still all sticky, you can’t possibly sleep in such a state - not to mention the state of your _poor_ back if you did that here. How about a warm bath?’ 

Thorin grumbled a bit but ultimately complied. It was all Bilbo could do to keep him awake in the warm water long enough to clean him properly; and later, when Thorin’s skin was soft and smooth once more, his silken hair heavy and wet from the bathwater, and his back rose and fell with his soft breaths beneath the fur blankets of Beorn’s largest bedroom, Bilbo sank to a sit on the rug by the bed and studied Thorin’s peaceful face in the moonlight. 

‘Thorin,’ he began very slowly, testing out the words, tasting how they felt on his tongue, ‘I might love you.’

He spared a gentle touch to Thorin’s unfurrowed brow, brushing away a wayward strand of hair, before rising noiselessly to his feet and leaving to rejoin the Company.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Thorin hear it? Did he not? Who knows. Ha, just kidding, I definitely do.
> 
> KHUZDUL
> 
> 'ursel: fire of all fires
> 
> madtubirzul: golden heart
> 
> kidhuzel: gold of all gold
> 
> kahomhîlizu: please
> 
> labathmizu: I adore you
> 
>  
> 
> Next up --> Mirkwood.


End file.
